Changing Hands
by HarmlessFreezing
Summary: What happened to Hawke after Kirkwall? Who is missing when the Seeker comes searching, & what does that mean for their former companions? A fic set between Meredith's death & the Seeker's interrogation starring many DA:0/2 characters. Inc. MHawke/Anders
1. Mages

Light throbbed in the dell. Blue eyes glowed as lightning bit bones and singed flesh. Four figures formed crooked, shaking runes around a bleeding man lying prone on the floor. Recruit Niall's teeth rattled and the taste of tin exploded in his mouth. He was helpless to watch as the maleficar – they hadn't seen him, how hadn't they seen him? – stalked around their band, smiling with satisfaction as he held their hot white leash.

As he reached the centre of the circle the body on the floor twitched back into life and the tattered man creaked to his knees. He gripped a hand to his blood drenched shirt and spoke through gritted teeth.

'Enough now. Just hold them.'

The maleficar snorted. 'This _is _holding them.'

The Champion groaned as his hands worked bright magic over his pierced shoulder. His voice was dangerous as he snapped. 'I said enough, Anders.'

The maleficar shrugged and the pain vanished. Niall wanted to sink to the ground in blessed relief but his bones wouldn't let him. He was stuck steady at the whim of the mages.

'You can let that one go.'

Initiate Niall's hopes fluttered for a moment before being shot dead by the sight of Knight-Lieutenant Jaspar, jaw slack, eyes vacant, blood streaming from his neck. Jaspar had had the privilege of landing the first blow on the apostate.

The Anderfel flicked his unnatural blue eyes and it was though someone had snapped a string; Jaspar tumbled to the ground with a wet thud, his limbs tangled and lifeless.

The Champion picked up the sword that had skewered his shoulder and studied it as a wife inspects a ham at market.

'Nicest sword.' He concluded. 'Best templar.' He pointed to the former Knight-Lieutenant Jaspar. 'I would like you all to seriously consider this when I ask you the following question.'

He stepped back to address all three equally. 'How intent are you on continuing this charade, despite your rather unfortunate position? Can we end the game here, shake gentlemenly hands and go our separate ways, or are you itching for a rematch?'

He stabbed the sword into the damp sod and leaned against it. He made a valiant effort at disguising a wince. He turned to the maleficar.

'They secure?'

'Oh yes.'

'Then let them answer.'

Initiate Niall felt his jaw unclench like a stiff buckle. He let out a whimper and revelled in the sensation. Before he could even form a thought he heard the piercing cry of Knight-Corporal Emelric.

'Foul creatures! We will never surrender – you will be subdued and subject to the Chantry's punishment!' The veins on the Templar's head were throbbing. Niall knew he was trying to conquer the magic, cleanse the dell and be free of its influence. But it was so much harder now, the instinct dulled and foggy, like running when drunk or remembering a dream.

'You refuse surrender?' The Champion leaned closer to Emelric, who did not flinch.

'I would rather die than allow maleficarum to wander freely.'

'You sure about that?'

Emelric's eyes bulged. 'Andraste as my witness!'

'Fair enough.' The Champion lifted his hand. Emelric's head snapped back. His throat gargled a victory for death as he stared blankly at the sky. 'Let him down Anders. Gently.'

The body of Emelric joined the Lieutenant's in the dirt.

Niall's blood froze as attention was turned to him. 'You.' The Champion's stare was unavoidable. 'Do you have the mettle of your companion, or are you a more _reasonable_ sort?'

'R-reasonable, ser.'

'Ser Anghast! Remember your vows!' Harald's shrill whine pierced the air.

'I was not speaking to you, serah. But if you feel so strongly about your own vows, please do feel free to chip in.' The Champion inclined his head to the cooling boots of Emelric. Harald squeaked in protest, but fell silent.

'Very well. Perhaps Ser Anghast and I can finish our conversation uninterrupted. It _was_ Ser Anghast, wasn't it?'

Niall tried to nod, but found his head still gripped by invisible hands. 'Yes.' he croaked, 'Niall Anghast.'

'Well Niall, would you kindly reveal the location of my companion's phylactery?'

Niall clamped his lips shut. He was glad that his body was still another's grip, for he knew otherwise his shaking would have been visible.

The Champion regarded him with interest.

'Ah – a challenge I see.'

He sauntered towards him. 'That's my fault.' His tone was chillingly friendly. 'I haven't told you what will happen if you don't tell me. A reasonable man needs facts to make an informed decision, yes?'

He brought his face close. Niall could smell the salt of sweat and blood clinging to his black beard.

'Niall,' he spoke in quiet earnest, 'if you do not tell me where the phylactery is, I will be forced to find it, and the quickest way to find blood is to draw it all to my hand. Whether it is in glass, on a sword...' He paused, and did not blink. '...in a body.'

He leaned back. 'I'd rather not do it that way – it's awfully unpleasant -'

'Messy.' The Anderfel chipped in.

'- messy indeed. But if you leave me no choice...' The Champion trailed off, and waved his fingers.

A tear slipped from Niall's eye that he couldn't brush away. He felt the weight of the glass tube against his breastbone. He wished it would fly out as if called, leaving his life and dignity intact.

'I have it.' The confession was no more than a whisper.

'Ser Anghast!' Harald started, before his jaw was stoppered. The Anderfel's eyes flared again.

'Go on.'

'I have it. It is around my neck. On a chain.'

'Thank you, Ser Anghast. I am going to reach in and get it. You be sure to tell me if you feel at all violated.'

The hand delved into his breastplate. Niall felt it making crabbed motions across his it found its prize. He felt a tug and the chain snapped, falling away from his neck. The Anderfel scowled as his companion held the small phial aloft. The tiny drop of liquid glowed angrily in return until the Champion slipped it into a pocket.

'Thank you Niall.' He said.'You have made a very wise decision.'

The Anderfel was shifting his weight restlessly. 'Hawke, what do you propose now? It is quiet here – they would not be discovered for some time.' His voice had lost the deep, unholy quality it had before, but the wistful young voice now was almost more frightening.

Niall gasped at the injustice, but before he could protest, the Champion snapped. 'I will not have this discussion again.'

His thick brows knitted as he regarded his remaining captives. 'We will bind them, but keep I will keep my word.'

'We are low on rope.'

'Then we shall improvise. Relesase this one's hands. _Just _the hands'

Niall shivered as the numbness slipped from his hands, slowly, almost reluctantly. He observed their movement will proud joy, like a father watching the first steps of a child.

When he looked up, the Champion was holding the Kinght-Lieutenant's sword.

'Niall, hands together in front of you please.'

His own sword! Where was it? He had dropped it when the lightning hit. There, at his feet! Perhaps if he could reach it he could fight from his rooted spot.

His captor tapped the pommel of his stolen sword. 'Hands. Now.'

Reluctantly, he brought his wrists together. As soon as they touched, the ground erupted beneath him and green fronds burst forth, twisting themselves around his hands and pulling him to his knees. He saw the Anderfel do the same to Harald, although much less gently. The blue seams on his face had knit back together, but his scowl still tore his face.

The Champion picked up Niall's sword and held it loosely before him. A slender branch worked its way around the pommel. The new sapling sagged under the weight of it but kept the pommel aloft, tantalisingly close to his fingers. 'This is a remarkably fast growing plant. I'd say two days at most before you find that steel in your hand.'

Niall's dry mouth ached in protest. The Champion tuned away, and began gathering his possessions from the churned ground. 'Who knows?' he said, wiping his staff on his sleeve. 'You may wriggle free first.'

The Anderfel's tone was dark. 'Perhaps if Templars spent more time caged they would be more prepared for an escape.'

The Champion finished loading himself and pulled Jaspar's sword from the mud. He gave it a few testing swings before shaking his head. He touched a hand to the bloodied sword, sending ice then flames chasing up the blade before throwing it into the low shrubs. He then did the same to the floor, turning the blood-soaked ground into a deep mire. Task completed, he turned to his companion. Without a word they fell into step together.

They had moved barely feet away when Harald rediscovered his voice. It did not surprise Niall that the man cherished the sound of his own preaching almost as much as his life. 'Andraste!' He faced the sky in entreaty. 'How does a man fall so far from you?'

The Champion placed a hand on the Anderfel's arm before walking back to the old man. He knelt and answered. His voice was quiet, and Niall was never sure he'd heard the answer correctly. As their backs disappeared into the forest's shadows and the first of thirsty nights stretched above him, he replayed the answer in his head, searching for wisdom.

_They took away his cat._


	2. Templars

An early moon was clear through the office window. The lake far below cut its reflection into shards. A draught rustled the papers on the desk and an ornate hourglass hissed obnoxiously. Cullen twitched. Even this room whispered behind his back.

Greagoir peered sourly through bushy brows.

'Do you know why you are here, Cullen?'

What a question. Every time he asked himself, answers of every conflicting stripe clamoured to be heard. Every time he asked the Maker, there was only stony silence. How could Greagoir expect to gain any satisfaction from him?

He fixed the Knight-Commander earnestly. 'I have no idea, Knight-Commander.'

'Come now Cullen, don't be so coy. You return from your latest posting in disgrace. A posting that was sympathetic to say the least. I trust you have had time to reflect on this since your return?'

Ample time. He had been idling in his private quarters the last week – killing a Knight-Commander had granted him privileges that promotion had not. Perhaps Greagoir worried such ideas were catching.

'Meredith was insane – taken over by some corrupt magic. I acted as every Templar is trained to.'

'As you explained before. And you have witnesses who corroborate this unusual story.' Was there disappointment creeping through? 'It is not that to which I refer. Equally distressing is that two war criminals were allowed to escape under your watch.'

'Two criminals, ser?'

'The Hawke fellow, and the twisted fruit of our own loins. You are familiar with both, yes?'

'I had not understood Hawke to have played a part in the whole affair.'

Greagoir sneered. 'The two were known associates, acting together to defy the Templars and execute its highest authority within the city – not without help it is noted – and they maintain each others' company even after fleeing the site of their crimes. I would deem those actions of guilty men.'

'Indeed.'

'They remain together, and so far have eluded the Templars dispatched by Kirkwall and her neighbours. Those who have returned have done so disgraced, but unharmed.' Greagoir's face crumpled in distaste.

'Those who have not?'

'Andraste shows us that the dead retain their honour.'

There was a shuffle to his left. Cullen had barely noticed the dwarf girl crouched in the apprentice chair. Her hand made a crabbed scribbling on her papers. He could just make out the words 'Andraste – death/honour'. He often forgot that the Chant had yet to reach so many.

Greagoir waited until he had their full attention. He made no comment but his disapproval was clear. The girl flushed and squeezed her papers between her knees. Cullen simply shifted his weight and fixed his gaze on the Knight-Commander.

'Three missions in all have failed.'

That was unexpected. Three was not unheard of, but these would not be rookie expeditions. But then Hawke had often defied expectations. Even Knight-Commander Meredith had resisted his requests to engage the mage directly, however peaceful or reasonable the offer. For a man with no training or even apparent intellect he was surprisingly resourceful.

'The Marchers have not asked us for help beyond providing phylacteries. They have none for their Champion. More fool them.'

Cullen's blood chilled. He clenched his hands and tried to keep his gaze steady, but Greagoir's sharp eyes narrowed.

'Do not trouble yourself over that mistake, however foolish; the Anderfel's repeated infranctions led us to ensure we have enough phylacteries for more Marcher failures yet.'

Greagoir stood and looked out of the window. Lake Calenhad shone in the late afternoon light. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and serious. 'In truth, there are those who regard their failure as an opportunity.'

'To demonstrate Ferelden ability?'

'Watch your tongue, Captain. You have been gone from here too long.' Greagoir fingered his sword, but it was an absent gesture. He sighed. 'But you are closer than you think.

'The assault on the Chantry has demonstrated the danger of mages and colours their future, we witness the consequences daily: uprisings; abominations; lynchings; and fear upon fear. Yet the attack is not solely a mage issue, nor a religious one. There is, regrettably, a _political_ stake.' The word dripped with venom.

Greagoir turned and gripped his desk. 'This Hawke; Ferelden. The Anderfel; all but. The Templar who allowed the catastrophe, who was entrusted with the safety of the city; Ferelden, too. This is not simply an attack on the Kirkwall Chantry. There are feelings that this is Ferelden aggression on Free March soil.

The Free Marches are a mongrel state, but they can bite hard once they get their heads in the same direction. We have a slim window of time to ensure that does not happen. The King is hindered by his unfortunate priot engagement with the Champion but he is most keen for Ferelden to be seen to act.

Do you begin to see your place in this, Cullen?'

'Aye, ser.' Ferelden produced the mess; Fereldens must show willing to right it.

'Good lad. We are putting together a prime expedition, Ferelden and Marcher both. Great minds, great Templars, to find the maleficarum and bring them to justice. The Marchers you will meet at south of Starkhaven; in the closest civilised place to the apostate's last known location. Our own men are already prepared. Carroll you already know. Huw arrived after your time. He is young, but he is pious and determined – he will get the job done. Yourself and Dagna will complete the team.'

'Dagna?' He eyed the dwarf perching in the corner. 'Knight-Commander, this will be a dangerous mission – please do not underestimate these men.'

'I do not.' The words slammed like a grave slab. 'The magics that destroyed the Chantry were powerful, and rare. Our bookworm here is our foremost expert on the theory of magic and more than nosy enough to have peered into the more dangerous forbidden books.'

Dagna appeared to be searching for a place to tunnel out of the office.

'She is far too knowledgeable for her own good – and a brave soul. I suggest that _you_ do not underestimate _her_.'

The dwarf flushed again, but this time the red bordered a small smile. If Greagoir saw the effect of his words he didn't acknowledge it.

'You will both be expected in the main hall at dawn tomorrow. So, former Knight-Captain, how has your city life left you? Do you remember what is needed for such a task?'

Cullen let his eyes linger on the fine upholstery before nodding.

'All in good repair?'

Repaired and glistening. What else has there been to do but tend and polish? He nodded again, but Greagoir's attention had already moved.

'Dagna, take what you feel necessary; I'm sure I don't know what a bookworm needs. Just remember, these men have an important duty – take nothing you cannot carry for yourself.'

'That will be all.'

The dwarf leapt from the chair and scurried from the room, whether she was scared or excited Cullen could not tell. He turned to follow.

'Cullen – wait a further moment.'

Greagoir moved to the door and checked it was closed.

'Take a seat.'

Cullen settled into the chair as Greagoir returned to his desk. He hadn't sat like this since first arriving at the Circle, when he was called in to discuss his over-familiarity with some of the mages. How strange that he felt much less fear now, when he was in far more trouble.

Greagoir fixed him with an impenetrable stare, hands clasped on the desk. Twice his breath caught, as though to say something, then was chased from his lips by a frown.

Cullen said nothing. In previous years he would never have dared face one of the Knight-Commander's silences, but the creases around his eyes and the flecks of soap upon the older man's collar stood out in a way they never had before and gave him courage.

Greagoir flexed his fingers then folded them again.

'How are you Cullen?'

'Well, ser.'

'You were not at peace when you left here.'

'No ser. It was a difficult time.'

'Yet you are well now.'

The pain tensed in the back of his ears, and he felt the too familiar tingle of a scream thread round his throat. He exhaled quietly. It was easy to control now.

'I have had time. Kirkwall was - refreshing.'

'So it would seem.'

The silence rose between them, stretching and curling round the room.

'Ser, is there anything further?' Cullen made sure his tone was polite and diffident. He knew it would irritate the Knight-Commander in a way he wouldn't be able to describe.

'Cullen, how would you describe my leadership here?'

This was unexpected. Cullen felt wrong-footed for the first time since his return. He did not like the memories it brought, or how familiar it felt.

'It is the opinion of this Templar that the Knight-Commander is determined and resolute. He is strong of faith and clear of purpose, serving the Circle, ever-vigilant.'

'Cut the horse crap, Cullen. I am an old man. I will not be Knight-Commander much longer. I would have you tell me – honestly – how you feel I have done in my duty.'

'I think you have a very hard job. I do not envy you.'

'Go on.'

'I think you are firm. I sometimes thought too firm. I sometimes thought not firm enough, but I think you are as consistent as the many powers in this world will let you be.'

'Well done, Cullen. You have said nothing and used many words to do so. A man has asked you a question, it would be considered polite to answer it.'

No pulling of rank, no orders. What was this game? Cullen kept his tone as flat as he could, even as he chanced a thought. 'I think you serve well in your duty to protect the world from mages. I think you do not acknowledge your duty to protect the mages from the world.'

Greagoir's tone was bleak. 'Nothing I have not heard before.'

Well, if the old man wanted it. 'I think you are swayed by your affections for the First Enchanter. And ser, I think you have affection for Irving because you cannot have affection for the mages. I think you care for them and I think it scares you. And I think you have begun to wonder if what you ever do is right.' Greagoir's face was thunder: he had gone too far. Cullen was astonished by his own calm. 'As I said, I do not envy you.'

'You once encouraged me to kill the First Enchanter. You were less than satisfied by my decision, and made it plain.'

'It had been a hard time, ser.'

Greagoir drew breath. Cullen pinched the backs of his knees. The echoing screams were quieter if he controlled the pain.

'Indeed. How do you reflect on that decision now?'

'You have been proved correct.'

'So far. But that does not answer the question.'

The challenge was laid. Cullen was no longer certain he wanted to accept. This was dangerous. 'Ser, it is not my place.'

'We have come this far. Please, do not be abashed now.' Greagoir would not be denied.

'Ser, I was concerned that yours was not a rational decision. I thought – I think that you made the decision based on friendship – and driven by hope.' He could not look at the Knight-Commander's face. 'However, I know that my advice was driven by fear. And fear is never friend to reason.'

Cullen looked up to a smile. It was a weak, concealed thing, but genuine nonetheless.

'Ser, may I ask what -'

'One more question and then we shall be done. Cullen, what should we do about the mages?'

'The mages?'

'Yes, how should we deal with them. Your many experiences, your relationship to the Kirkwall Chantry, the current disorder, you must have thought about it.'

Of course he had. The mages – all his life had been about the mages. Their power, their fear, their pleas, their hair as it touched smooth skin in the sunlight. Apostates, maleficar, the Circle, the suicides. The hells that they wrought and the dreams they invaded, with malevolent whispers or sweet secrets and shame. He saw monsters wielding pain, and young boys with outstretched in terror, and old women with calloused hands spreading peace and healing.

Oh he had thought about it, and argued about it and the voices shouted louder and more fervently and each one was his own.

'I think -' _they are dangerous. _'If it comes down to it -' _they need our protection._

He placed his hands on the desk, palms open and sighed. 'I don't know. I'm sorry, ser, I just don't know.'

Greagoir pursed his lips.

'You had many opinions as a younger man.'

'I got older.'

'As do we all.' As Greagoir relaxed his shoulders, that fact had never appeared more obvious. His hair, grey as long as Cullen had known him, was now so white in places as to be colourless. Deep wrinkles spoke of decades of frowning. His hands were laced with purple veins beneath fish white skin, and as they toyed with the clasps on his bracers it was clear that their strength was fading.

Cullen felt a surge of pity for the man whose very name had once filled him with cold dread.

'Cullen, this mission will be more difficult than you anticipate. The apostates must be brought back alive. The attack at Kirkwall – all mages have suffered. The balance we have fought so hard to maintain is being assailed from all flanks.

They must be seen. There must be a trial. The people need a culprit – we must show them the faces of madmen. Justice must be done.

Cullen, I am entrusting you with this. They must be brought back alive. You must make sure they **stay **alive.'

Cullen answered: 'Capture of apostates is the intention of every such mission, unless there is no other choice.' The men stared at each other.

'The Marcher, Ser Benedict, is a determined and skilled man. I have no doubt that he will lead you successfully and in a manner befitting the high standards of his Circle.'

Greagoir continued. 'He is also a very thorough man. Leaving the fate of the apostates in the hands of the politicians will not come easily to him. But _it must be done_.' Phials jumped as his fist slammed on the desk. 'The hearts of all men fight with darkness – but some things must be done in the light. Irving believes you have seen enough darkness to crave a little light. I believe that people should remember to fear it.'

And beneath the weakening exterior Cullen saw the core of steel.

'Do you understand what I ask?'

'Yes, ser. Yes, I understand.'

'I am placing my faith in you, Cullen.'

'And I have faith that the Maker will guide my path to success.'

Greagoir scoffed. 'You do not. It is why I have chosen you. Men of the world do not rely on faith. You may show yourself out.'


	3. Mages 2

So it had happened. The balance of his feet had finally tipped in favour of blister over flesh. Healing only gave more skin to re-blister, and he didn't feel like providing more territory for the awful things to conquer. He promised to dry and re-bind his feet next time they paused, but who knew when that would be?

Hawke had been pushing hard since their last encounter with the Templars, which meant days and days of pointed brow and monosyllabic conversation. Their progress felt less like walking than forcing the ground behind them, grinding out each desperate mile. Anders couldn't fathom what could be special about this dingy, desolate part of the Free Marches. He'd thought that the featureless space on the map meant they were in uncharted terrain, but it was a truly accurate representation of the barren landscape stretching blankly for miles around them. It was only Hawke's greedy expression as they tramped across yet more endless moor that he could be sure there was anything beyond the horizon. They had been walking for longer and sleeping less as they dragged themselves across the final inches that separated them from the unremarkable crease in his tattered map.

They would have made better progress if Hawke hadn't insisted on taking needless, curving detours to mask their path from the Templars, who couldn't get their tin heads to think beyond straight lines. In truth, they would have made better progress if Hawke didn't insist on leaving some of the vile creatures alive. For a man who had survived and thrived on an obstinate pragmatism, he had recently developed an idiotic stubbornessjust to enact a punishment.

It was a new, uncompromising rule that had been laid down after their first encounter with a Templar pack, less than a month after they had returned to the Free Marches. They had been stupid, Anders remembered with regret; their time in Tevinter had left them careless and too dependent on home comforts, and they were discovered lingering in an inn.

They made their escape with greater ease than either had ever managed. Justice saw to that. By the time he was done, all that was left was smoking timber, the gentle plink of cooling armour and the yellow afterglow at the edges of his vision.

Anders had straddled the awful void between horror at his own handiwork and basking in the cold, thrilling air of freedom. Hawke had been nowhere near so ambivalent, and had made it known through a fug of astonished incoherence.

There had been two civilians in the inn when it tumbled in a fist of flame. One or both of them had been more than happy to see them dead at the Templars' hands, but Hawke could be very pig-headed about bystanders. He insisted, with words and with steel and a barely restrained tug at the Veil, that if they were ever cornered again, there were only to be the unavoidable deaths, including – 'yes, Anders, _including' – _Templars. Anders was not against this sentiment in general (he flattered himself that he'd been better at observing this code than Hawke had ever managed) but restraining himself from Templars and their willing accomplices was too much. Justice seethed, but they needed Hawke.

It had been a hollow smugness that took hold when the Templars found them again. They had been north of the Vimmarks, behind them an empty decrepit temple and their first disappointment of Hawke's little treasure hunt. As long as he'd known him, Hawke had a knack for attracting vermin – even the tattooed kind – and the pass they were trekking through was beset by spiders, hairy beasts with giant fangs and tiny, mindless eyes. Even as the last of the monsters fell (not before claiming an alarmingly large portion of Anders' leg) they were too distracted to notice the band of Templars surrounding them.

They stood like rotten teeth along the crest of the canyon, posturing without daring to face them cowardice was a blessing – the Fade was still tantalisingly close as the first arrows whistled down around raised his hand and a quick shake of the gorge side sent the whole tin bandtumbling into the canyon. Only two survived the fall, and one stopped twitching shortly after. Clearly Hawke drew some invisible line between encouraging a death and causing it, as he stopped Anders before he could execute the final trembling boy pleading for mercy. Sometimes he trusted too much to his presence staying a ready hand. As Hawke thrust his body between them, Anders had had to fight hard to overpower the itch to send a righteous bolt through the both of them.

It had been some small recompense to see the young Templar's gape as the he realised they were going to leave him alone in the gorge, a sight that Anders gently tucked away to be caressed during the longest nights. The boy whimpered, nursing both a defeat and the loss of a phylactery, as well as a freshly broken ankle. Anders made a show of healing his own punctured leg and enjoyed the fresh terror as the boy took in the bristling hulks of the spiders, blood still glistening on their foul mandibles.

Inevitably, Hawke's idiocy came back to haunt them. Only days later they were accosted by a rag-bag army of farmers, holding shaking weapons and an even shakier faith. At their head was a limping Templar, clutching a grisly severed fang, the blood clumped at its tip glowing with sickening intensity as it returned to its owner.

Even then Hawke had dispatched their pursuers with some creative threats and one swift beheading, letting the traitorous sycophants scurry home to hearths and families while the two men huddled in a damp hole in the ground, fearing for their lives. Anders observed as much as they cowered from the rain, cold water dripping down their necks and no fire to warm them. Hawke merely grunted and dug his head further into his hood.

'It's terribly noble to try to spare every piece of filth we encounter, but the hard truth is that each one of them would see worse done to us, if only they could.'

Hawke was silent.

'I said - '

'I heard what you said.' And there it was. Hawke's serious voice. Sapped of all humour, as firm and unrelenting as a gravestone. It only surfaced when he was feeling particularly dangerous. Anders had heard it rarely back in Kirkwall; if his family was threatened, his patience ground to a sliver. He was hearing it a lot these days.

'The hard truth is that it's not because of them that I'm in this latrine.' He kicked something towards Anders and clamped his mouth shut.

Anders picked up the fang, and glared at the glow that sprung spitefully from its tip. Such disgusting magic in the hands of a boy; who would have thought such a snivelling piss streak was capable of it? Of course, it wasn't blood magic if the Templars did it, wasn't reprehensible to train teenagers to turn a man's body against him if it was sanctioned by the Chantry. He spat at the fould thing and smudged the blood into the dirt with the heel of his boot. From now on, they'd have to make damn sure to cleanse every battle site of the traitorous taint of blood.

When he was done scraping and scowling, Hawke's eyes were closed.

And that was it. From then on they ran like rats from the Templars at their heels, and Hawke spared as many as Anders could bear to let him.

* * *

><p>Night was still a few hours away when they caught sight of the town. A smudge on the horizon resolved itself into some small shacks and several farm buildings. Hawke smiled more readily and picked up the pace as it crept towards them. He even permitted himself the occasional hum.<p>

Sometimes, when he was at his most frustrated, and Hawke at his most bitter, Anders wondered whether this quest was just a wild goose chase that Hawke had dreamed up to keep them from the frontlines. To placate him with some kind of action to justify leaving the Circles to fight their own battles. But seeing Hawke now he felt a little guilty for his doubt. The man was lit with purpose, holding himself more easily as they ground out the remaining miles. He still lacked the easy swagger that made Anders' skin tingle, but a lack of tingle was compensated by a new peace.

He no longer felt the sickness of doubt and disapproval as he traipsed after Hawke, no revulsion at his own base dependence. After the chaos on their final day in Kirkwall, after the fury, the banishment to the chime of dagger on stone and the eventual acceptance on the steps of the Gallows, Anders for the first time had been at peace with himself. Hawke had offered them a mission, and he'd offered his aid, and Anders had accepted with his whole being. He still suffered regular flashes of frustration at their slow progress. After all, the Circles were tinderboxes needing only a carefully applied spark, but it was not the perpetual itch of bile and sickness at his own inaction and was soothed more readily by the fact of their mission. Hawke had a plan, and they had Hawke, and Anders felt whole and steady.

Well, maybe not fully whole. There was a definite lack of touch. Not in the most obvious way – although he was sometimes gripped by just how pressing that need could still be – but since they'd left Kirkwall Hawke's presence, usually so enveloping, had been pulled right back. No unconscious smiles, no casual banter, no strong hands lifting and pushing and -

He should stop.

He did not have the nerve to acknowledge it, but Anders almost wished that Justice would reveal more plainly his disagreement. The fracturing arguments had at least reminded him there were two halves to fight. He assumed this new content meant a calmer, more patient Justice, but the chilling thought occurred that it could also mean a subdued Anders. Could that happen? Could his being slip away with his reason, with his resolve, to leave his body housing some unrecognisable soul? Would he even know?

Sometimes, when it was very late and he could not hear Hawke's breathing, the awful possibility crept in that maybe he'd never had a friend called Justice at all. Perhaps he was just insane, a fanciful zealot who had constructed an absurd history to justify his existence. The seeping, paralysing fear would not subside until the morning, when Hawke would wake and complain that his glowing veins were advertising their position.

And so it was that when Hawke caught his admiring glance and marched away, towards the smudge in the distance, Anders nursed the small well of lust and regret gratefully, in the certain knowledge that it truly belonged to him.

* * *

><p>They arrived in good time, with still two hours 'til sunset. They leaned together on a short fence surrounding a yellowing pasture. Beyond the bored and weary sheep lay their destination. It could charitably be called a hamlet, but that was straining the description. Barely a dozen shacks and farmsteads were scattered untidily among the fields and heather, like unwanted crumbs. It hardly deserved its place on the map. The cartographers must have been so relieved to see anything in this drab wilderness that they elevated it above its station. Anders' hopes sank. What could they possibly find in a place like this?<p>

Hawke, for his part, was irritatingly chipper. 'Civilisation!' he smiled, 'Wonderful to see you, Gloomy Hole.'

'Gloomy Hole? Well, someone knew what they were talking about.'

'And they hadn't even met you.' Hawke gave him a pointed look. 'I'm sorry, you were talking about the place?'

Anders gave his best withering smile, which only seemed to cheer Hawke further. He pushed himself upright and gave Gloomy Hole a silent appraisal, arms folded and grin cocky. Anders recognised his Champion stare. It was hardly inconspicuous.

'Hawke, it's a tiny place. We can hardly blend in. People will notice.' _And then they'll talk_, he thought. He'd had plenty of experience of the people in these places. They were all simple and cow-eyed when they could be being useful, and then loose-tongued gossips with pin-sharp memories as soon as Authority came knocking. Having no desire to advertise themselves, they had both long since abandoned robes, and the only staff was Hawke's carefully designed walking stick, but two men staggering about the middle of nowhere wearing more muck than clothing was suspicious enough. It would certainly be noteworthy to slack-jawed farmers. Especially with Hawke radiating smirking mischief.

'You're right.' Hawke slipped his pack from his shoulder. It clanked as it hit the ground. 'It's a small place, so no Templars.' He began rooting in his pack, his voice coming in short bursts as he ducked about inside it. 'Nearest Chantry will be a good day's walk from here.' He pulled out, hands heavy and clinking. He threw a helm and gauntlets to the ground, and dangled a set of worn manacles seductively from a finger. 'What do you say. Anders? Want to play a game of The Big Templar and the Comely Mage?'

The man was infuriating. He waded straight into the hard things, the awful things weighing heavy with memory, and grabbed them and toyed with them like – well like a grown man playing with a pair of cuffs.

Anders wrapped the memories in anger, muffled them until they quieted. 'I won't be shackled. Not even by you. Not even for pretend.'

'Fine then. I'll be the mage if you like. I'm told I can give off a vulnerable allure when I put my mind to it.' Hawke batted his lashes and bit his lip coyly. With the sweat and shadows of weeks of running weighing down his skin he looked quite revolting. 'Of course, that means you'd have to wear those.'

He kicked at the stolen armour. Anders shivered with disgust. The eye slits leered at him. Bile rose and lodged in his throat as he swallowed, hard. 'Never.' he managed.

'Thought not. Comely mage you are, then.'

'This is ridiculous, Hawke. What's the point?'

'Like you said, we'll be noticed in a spit-bucket of a place like this. But at least we get to decide what is noticed.'

Hawke scythed his boots clean with the edge of a gauntlet before strapping them both to his wrists. He then busied himself with Anders' pack, strapping the whole thing to his front. 'Apostates normally travel light,' he explained, using spare ties to distribute the weight evenly across his torso and abdomen, 'and Templars are notoriously imposing.' He jiggled a little and, satisfied with his newly swollen chest, pulled his cleanest cloak about himself before hoisting his own pack on his back.

He stood straight, planting his feet apart with stern confidence, and screwed the helm onto his head. 'How do they see in these things?' He tossed his head to and fro, enjoying the dressing up more than Anders thought decent.

'Your turn.' Hawke said, grabbing the manacles. 'I'll do them playfully tight.'

'You won't do them at all.' Anders snatched them from his hands. He gave the arm of each loop a gentle push, and locked them while there was still enough space to fit his wrists through. He slipped his hands into them and then out again, taking care to absorb the sensation.

There was no sickly magebane now, no dulling, choking aura of Templars. With a few tempered breaths he managed to force back the fear and put his wrists between them a final time.

To his credit, Hawke hadn't commented, but that may have been because he was busy practicing his Templar walk. With his regimented swing, the helmet and the thick cloak disguising what made up his bulk, Hawke could be mistaken for a ragged, poorly dressed Templar. At least by anyone not looking too closely.

For his part, Anders focused desperately on the joins: the dirt mottling Hawke's unshaven neck, his lopsided tread as he strained under the new weight; the ragged and chewed fingernails. He gritted his teeth and struggled with the warring, screaming instincts that desired to flee, or to wrench the Templar head from its frail body. _It's Hawke. It's Hawke. Who else is disgusting enough to chew at those filthy hands?_

Hands that when they took his shoulder was gentle, and flesh rather than steel. Anders channelled their familiar warmth to calm his racing heart. He couldn't kill this man simply for looking like a Templar. 'All right.' he exhaled. 'Let's get this over with.'

'Not so fast.' Hawke's voice was a twisted echo within the helmet as he pushed him towards the houses. 'I'm giving the orders here, magey.'

He couldn't even kill him for being so relentlessly Hawke.


	4. Templars 2

A/N: I've not been able to fully figure out the rules of address for Free Marcher Templars vs. Fereldan Templars vs. the polite forms of address for citizens, so if there's any constructive comments about the semantics, please do tell me...

Dagna felt small.

She'd felt short ever since leaving Orzammar. On the surface the sky yawned above her. Even the outstretched finger of the Circle Tower could not brush it. Inside the tower she was – well, dwarfed, to use that awful surface word. Everyone, even the elves, lived above her; conversations took place over her head. Everything in the tower was built for taller heads, higher hands, wider stances. That was one of the reasons she loved her library; everyone had to climb, stretch and fight to reach the knowledge hidden in its bristling walls. And she was in control – important almost – giving advice and mages taking it. Like she knew something. She should have felt at home here in the Eidervale outpost office; shelves lined with papers, the familiar smell of parchment, wood and wax, as well as the occasional tang of mud from poorly wiped boots.

But here she felt small in a way she hadn't since her first week at the Tower. The Templars around her loomed, they seemed to swell to fill the room. Each was tall, but their armour muscled out further, and beyond even that, their assurance clawed its way into all available space until the air prickled and bristled with power.

The four stood rigid, despite the Knight-Captain's instructions to be at ease, fixed like the points of a compass, sizing each other up. Dagna did her best to look alert and useful, her obvious difference pricking her skin from the inside.

The Knight-Captain himself, a stocky, grey-eared man, regarded the silent ranks with approval, and a little awe. She would have wondered at that, given his position, but against the young, strong warriors around him it was clear his legs were more used to swinging off a chair rather than swinging in formation. And the only weapons his soft, fat hands had handled recently were coins and a quill. And perhaps other things she didn't dare think about in case she laughed.

He cleared his throat. 'Well men. And -' he looked at Dagna, clearly stuck for the word. His fumbling embarrassed her far more than him. 'Hem - and ladies.' he decided, glancing at the tall, dark templar to his left. She raised a neat eyebrow, but said nothing.

'Men and ladies. Your task is clear. I think the most sensible thing I can do is to leave you all to get better acquainted. I have granted you the use of my office for now, I have many other duties to keep me occupied.'

He nodded to the Free March templars and bustled himself out of the office, holding in his stomach until he thought no-one was looking, when he let it spill over his belt in bright folds that reminded Dagna of thick soup. The Templars ignored him leaving. In fact they'd barely registered his presence at all, continuing their silent examination of each other. Feeling awkward, Dagna did the same.

The expedition leader was to be the man in the corner. Knight-Lieutenant Benedict had a face to match the sharpness of his name. Pale, tight cheeks, a thin nose and his black beard neatly trimmed to disguise his mouth. Without any clue if he was smiling, there was nothing to temper his piercing blue stare. Just being close to those eyes made Dagna feel guilty, although what for she didn't know.

Next to him was the woman. Dagna could not remember her surface name, it had too many long vowels and softnesses. She had a smooth face and deep eyes that blinked often; her abundance of hair could not be contained by her clasp and dark wisps were falling into them. She caught Dagna looking and smiled.

Dagna swallowed the knot of embarrassment and looked to her own Templars. She had been disappointed that Carroll had been invited to join the officers rather than Hywel, but she knew his age gave him a priority that his skill didn't. She had never liked Carroll much at the tower but here she was grateful for his familiar presence. Now he was standing straighter than she'd ever seen him and she was staggered to see that he had even tried to flatten his hair from its usual tufty mess.

And the last was Cullen. He had been nothing but polite to her on the journey over, asking her about the books she was reading, or pointing out landmarks as they came closer to shore. But she still did not feel comfortable with him. He didn't seem the dangerous rebel of rumour, or the madman of older gossip, but his quiet presence seemed to sit sideways to the rest of the world, as though he had one foot out of the door. Conversation with him was vague and cryptic, and when he smiled it was as though he was laughing at a joke that no-one else understood. Now his expression betrayed nothing; it was attentive, but his own feelings were carefully blank.

She didn't understand any of these people.

Benedict was the first to speak. 'May I repeat the welcomes you have already received; it is fine to be joined by our Fereldan brethren. I am Knight-Lieutenant Benedict Larsson, and this is Ser Calanthia.'

'We've met before.' Cullen's soft voice didn't imply whether this had been a pleasurable or poor relationship, but Calanthia smiled at him in acknowledgment.

'Ah, of course. Kirkwall. Then you must be Cullen.' Dagna was surprised. Benedict didn't use his title, despite it technically being his due. Cullen didn't seem to care.

'So you must be Ser Carroll?' Carroll nodded at both, with a short snap of the head that sent a curl of his hair srpinging stubbornly upright.

Benedict turned his attention to Dagna. 'And this is our dwarven friend Danga.'

'Dagna.' Corrected Calanthia. 'I understand you have a head full of knowledge and curios that might help us?'

'Yes. At least I hope so. Some things, anyway.' Dagna's feet toes curled in her shoes. Did she sound arrogant? Would she be asked to prove herself? Should she have said no – or would that have caused greater trouble?

The woman – she had forgotten the name already – lowered her voice conspiratorially. 'I have a sister like that, in the Chantry. Reads so many books the words fall out of her ears.'

'Indeed.' Benedict wrestled control of the conversation. 'It is my hope that we will not need words for the success of our mission – just conviction, and steel.'

Cullen folded his arms and Dagna remembered their last conversation with Knight-Commander Greagoir. If Benedict sensed discomfort he did not acknowledge it.

'Come,' he said, 'I should brief you on the _progress_' (he coughed the word) 'so far.'

x x x

She hung back as the officers gathered round a worn map on the table. The Knight-Lieutenant haughtily delivered a rallying summary of 'the quarry and their crimes'. The first she already knew – didn't everybody? The Chantry destroyed, the Circle disbanded, and the Knight-Commander killed on the very steps of her office. Fire and death, and a ring of chaos that rippled out across nations.

And somehow the culprits had slipped the net. By the time Kirkwall's flames were extinguished, they were already in Tevinter. She didn't miss the looks that turned to Cullen at this stage. He did not balk, and simply waited for the conversation to continue. The apostates' actions in Tevinter were unknown and the Knight-Lieutenant had some choice words for Imperium indifference. She did not know if the words were rude or political – he seemed to use the two interchangeably. Fortunately, he said, the apostates must have found Tevinter attitudes equally despairing as they returned to Nevarra some months after. From here, he traced their path into and across the Marches, his finger trail punctuated by brightly tied pins.

There were many questions that she did not follow concerning terrain and population centres and circles of influence, but what quickly became clear was how little was obvious about the mages' path and purpose. Discussion of likely routes, trade centres and known mage sympathisers washed over her and she focussed on the pins, their bright silky tags shivering in the draught. They followed no obvious direction, a zig zag sloping from the Nevarran border down the length of the Marches to a marker placed tentatively in the western Vimmarks before curling upwards, any pattern becoming lost in a sparse scatter of pins.

None of the dates tagged to the pin heads were from within the past three weeks. She sifted through the shelves in her head: Tevinter, the Vimmark Mountains, the Free March plains. What linked these places?

Tevinter she knew little about. The books in the tower library were deliberately vague. She would often encounter books with whole pages – sometimes chapters! - removed, the carefully scored wounds screaming at her from the spines. What mostly remained were brief references to further works to be found in the grand Tevinter libraries, where they no doubt treated their books with the proper respect. She had the opposite problem with the Vimmarks. There was much lore and history connected with the mountains, but without any concrete information it was too much to whittle down. And the plains? She would have to return to her books for that – what few she had with her. She should have brought some geographical volumes with her – why did she stick to magics? _Magics and the Marches_; she had packed and unpacked that dozens of times back in the Circle – had she brought it with her, or was it sitting squat and useless on her bedside table next to _A Walk in the Fade _and that mug of tea she forgot to return to the kitchens which was now surely growing -

The Knight-Lieutenant's voice was louder; he clearly realised he did not have the room's full attention. 'While I would prefer to anticipate their movements, I fear that Wildervale and Kirkwall are both too far from their last location to gamble on their next destination. I suggest that we will have to make do with tracking from the site of the last confirmed encounter. Unless you have some greater understanding of their motives, Ser Cullen, that you have yet to share?'

'Understanding?' Cullen's eyes narrowed.

'Gleaned from your association in Kirkwall? Could you hazard a guess at your Champion's motives?'

Cullen frowned. 'Hawke never really had any grand purpose that I could detect.'

'That you could detect. Pray, what might a more _interested _man conclude?'

Dagna watched for Cullen's response. He looked to be considering the question, but when he spoke his words were steady, as though he'd thought them all before. 'Many suspected a lust for wealth. Or power. He certainly managed to find both, but I did not get the sense he ever searched very hard for them.'

'You must understand, Cullen; facing the Qunari, igniting a revolution – these do not seem the actions of an apathetic man.'

'I did not say apathetic. I found him to be a singularly determined man, when embroiled in danger, or injustice. But there was never any sign he had grander intentions; his actions never hinted at a common purpose.'

'Save the destabilisation of nations. Quite a thing to miss.'

'Please, Knight-Lieutenant,' the female spoke up, 'the Captain is being modest. More than once he tried to convince Knight-Commander Meredith that the man was trouble. He told her he would spread through the city if left unchecked.'

Dagna felt a rush of gratitude to the woman. Benedict looked a little put out, but he clearly respected her word. 'Is this true, Ser Cullen?'

The woman smiled encouragement at Cullen, but he looked mildly irritated. His reply was careful. 'I warned Meredith, yes. Hawke was a law unto himself. His presence buzzed across the city, even before his defeat of the Arishok confirmed him a mage. I thought it dangerous to let a man run wild with nothing but his own whims to guide him, no matter how noble his intentions.'

'Kirkwall's command underestimated him.'

'No. The Knight-Commander recognised the threat, even before... well, before the end. But Hawke had friends and influence in many places. I think she hoped his energy could be pointed in more constructive directions until such a time when we could spare the resources to tackle the issue directly.'

'And Hawke would not be leashed.'

'I would say _could _not. It is hard to repurpose a man who has no purpose to begin with. You ask me whether I could guess the man's plans; a motive or drive that we can follow to its conclusion. My answer to you is that we never found one that we could understand.'

Benedict touched a hand to his beard. Beneath it his mouth twitched, rippling discontent across his face. Finally he snapped his pale eyes back to the map before them. 'Very well. We shall have to begin the hunt fresh, and trust to our skill.'

'And to the Maker.' Callie said, softly.

'Of course.' Benedict nodded, and next to him Carroll bowed his head. Dagna never knew what to do at these times. Was bowing your head obligatory? Was it rude not to, or was it ruder to dare to do so if you did not know the Chant? If she closed her eyes, how would she know when was right to open them again?

She lowered her gaze. If challenged, she could easily claim to be studying the map. No-one remarked, and instead the conversation swept onto questions of transport and provisions. Her attention wandered, studying the coloured pins against the key. Green tags for unconfirmed sightings, red for definite encounters – there weren't many of those – and blue for 'inferred position'. Guesses, then. Most of the places where the route suddenly changed were marked in blue. No definite destinations for her to use. She hoped they would remember that before they asked her advice.

Her confidence slumped, only to be snagged again by a new note in the Knight-Lieutenant's voice. Excitement; that was unexpected. He addressed the whole group with an officious hand. 'If you would care to accompany us to the armoury – I think that you will be pleasantly surprised.'

x x x

The armoury was a small room off the musty corridor. She could tell it was the armoury because of the mass of metal settled in bristling drifts around the room. There wasn't enough space for all the shields, scabbards and swords, so they were propped against walls, tumbled in piles and slung from racks hastily assembled from ropes and planks. The only thing that appeared to belong to the original room were the battered mannequins lined along one wall, their tattered shoulders slumped in shame under the embarrassment of riches.

Carroll whistled. Even Cullen appeared surprised.

Benedict's moustache curled in pleasure. 'We have a private benefactor.' he explained. 'Each chapter across the Marches has received a gift, even small outposts like this one. The gentleman is most keen to see the apostates brought to justice.'

'Quite the public citizen.' remarked Cullen.

'Heartening, is it not?'

'We will certainly not be under-supplied.'

'Nor under-manned.' Benedict gestured to a small doorway through which three men squeezed. 'Accompanying us will be Ser Phillip,' - a slick haired man saluted – 'and Ser Phillip.' The other man's salute was sloppier, hampered by the tight quarters and not wanting to elbow his companion in the face.

'And this here is Ser Howard.' The first Phillip spoke directly to Benedict. 'We've been helping him suit up.'

Hywel mumbled something behind him.

'What?' snapped the man, and Hywel's head fell, red hair shaking.

'Hywel.' Cullen corrected. He gestured to his left. 'This is Knight-Corporal Carroll, I am Knight-Captain Cullen, and that is Ser Hywel, pronounced huh-well.'

The first Phillip's face screwed into a sneer, but he did not speak back. Dagna felt a little embarrassed. She had never been able to pronounce his name properly, and he'd insisted she stick with Huw, which she could manage. Did he think she was just as awful and scornful?

'And Dagna.' prompted Calanthia.

'And Dagna.' Cullen shot her an apologetic look, but she'd been much happier before all eyes turned to her. The room was close enough already without the flush of attention. Hywel gave her a companiable smile; perhaps he didn't find her scornful after all. For some awful reason this only made her hotter.

Rescue came in the unlikely guise of Benedict. 'As introductions are over,' he said, 'I see no reason to prolong our discomfort in these intimate conditions. If our Fereldan friends would like to avail themselves of this room, we will await in the courtyard.'

The Marcher troops trudged out and it felt as though a sigh passed with them. Carroll wasted no time before pouncing on a cluster of swords.

'Would you look at this? Red steel! If we sold a fraction of this we could get a year at the Pearl -' Cullen coughed '-y Cove. Pearly Cove. It's a place. Near Highever. Very pretty. And expensive.'

'It is quite the collection.' Cullen said, his fingers testing the metal, probing joints and tapping plate.

'They got first pick, but there's still loads of great stuff left.' Hywel displayed his shield and banged new gauntlets against it. Aside from the shine, Dagna couldn't tell the difference from his old gear.

'I'll say there's still good stuff. These are genuine silverite!' Carroll tried to hold a pair of pauldrons aloft while working his feet into a new pair of boots. 'And mine!' he added, before anyone could challenge him.

'Take it easy, Carroll.' Cullen warned. 'You're going to have to carry anything you take.'

'There's space to change back here,' Hywel pointed through the doorway behind him, as Carroll tried to change skirts without removing his new boots, with little success. 'As there's a lady present.' Hywel blushed, his freckles disappearing into red.

'Fine.' Carroll shouldered his prizes as he clattered towards the door. 'What kind of man considers etiquette before steel?'

'Shut up Carroll.'

'Sorry, Hywel. I can't hear you over the sound of my magnificent boots.' He crowed, forcing the door shut behind him.

Hywel scowled and re-adjusted his gauntlets. 'I'm surprised he can hear anything when he's … over the sound of his … ' He was saved the embarrassment of trying to complete his response by the entrance of a sunken-faced youth.

'Oh! I'm sorry,' said the boy, his shaggy hair hiding his eyes as he dithered between staying and running straight back out. 'I'm just returning these.' He offered the full set of armour in his arms as evidence.

'You'll not be joining us, then?' Cullen asked.

The boy looked at him as though he couldn't decide if Cullen was cruel or mad. 'No, messere.' He plonked his armour in the nearest free space and scurried back to the exit.

'Ah. Well, it was good to meet you - ' Cullen was unfailingly polite. How had he not noticed how Hywel could not look this man in the eye?

'Ser Anghast.' Replied the boy. 'Well, just Niall Anghast. Messere.' He nodded and fled up the corridor.

Cullen frowned after him, before turning to Hywel. 'Care to explain?' So he had noticed, then.

'He was with the last hunt.'

'Oh. I see.'

'I don't.' Said Dagna. Hywel was here, she felt able to ask the nagging questions.

'He returned alive. Without the apostates.' Cullen said, sadly.

Her bewliderment must have been clear, because Hywel explained. 'He let the apostates escape.' The next was to Cullen. 'Worse, Phillip told me they bargained with him for his life. And he accepted.'

'He is disgraced for wanting to live?' Even Dagna was surprised by her own boldness.

'A Templar's life is sacrifice.' Cullen said.

'Yes, but does that mean you have to die? Hywel, could you really -'

'I swore an oath.' He sounded affronted, and fixed the straps on his chestplate with determined pride.

'You must understand, Dagna,' Cullen was being kind, and she bristled, 'a Templar's duty is to protect the people from the dangers of magic – even apostates themselves – and to lay down his life in the effort. If he is not resolved to that end then -'

'Then he is not fit to be called a Templar.' Hywel snapped.

'-then he will be unable to truly serve the people.' Finished Cullen, gently.

'But still - ' Dagna began, faltering a little at the sight of Hywel's hurt. 'It just seems very hard, that's all.'

'It's our duty.' said Hywel.

'It _is _hard.' said Cullen. 'And it is an unwise Templar who think it would be otherwise.'

Hywel reddened, busying himself testing shields. Cullen's hands were nimbly fastening straps and buckles, even as his eyes were fixed on the door through which Niall had retreated. When he spoke, it was so quiet she didn't know if anyone was meant to hear. 'Sometimes the hardest thing is being the one left behind.'

Dagna felt a sudden urge to touch him, to somehow break through the calm, distant exterior and _connect_ with him. She took a step across the floor, her spine electric, and reached out her hand to his.

'What's been happening, then?' Carroll's voice echoed through the shell of metal encasing him as he tumbled back into the armoury. He'd managed to put on every fragment and trapping that he could find until he looked like a silver pine cone.

'You look ridiculous.' muttered Hywel.

'And you still look like my smalls after too much ale. At least I'm diversifying.'

Cullen made a noise of disapproval.

'And you're still humourless, Cullen.' Carroll threw a sloppy arm around Hywel. It clanked like a kitchen rolling out of bed. 'So since everything's as it should be, shall we get this show on the road?'

Cullen sighed. 'Has everyone got what they need?'

'Need' was the wrong word to choose, thought Dagna. Hywel nodded and clanged his shield with his gauntlet. Carroll glanced around to see if there was anything he'd missed. Cullen had kept all his own gear, with the exception of a new breastplate, which was less ornate than the one he'd dropped, without pomp or insignia, or even the flaming sword.

'Move out, men.'

Hywel pulled Carroll out of the armoury before anything more could attach itself to him. Cullen grabbed Dagna's arm before she could follow. He pushed something heavy into her hand. Swaddled in leather, she could just see the glimmer of a blade under the folds. She looked at him in surprise.

'Just in case.' He said nothing else, but followed the others.

Without uncoverng it, she slipped the dagger into her bag. _A dagger_. The associations were chilling; assassinations, ritual, sacrifice. Swallowing, she forced the horrible thing to the bottom of her bag before trotting after.


	5. Mages 3

'Not bad for a jail cell, eh?' Hawke remarked, swinging himself onto a barrel and shaking a sweaty head free of his helmet. He placed its dead metal gaze onto the dirty lip of another barrel The room was lined with them, their lids dark and sticky.

'It reeks of beer, Hawke.' Stale clouds of it roiled round the small room, with no window or break in the stone walls to refresh the air. It smelled like a drunk's pocket. A long unwashed drunk.

'Precisely. Hastily rolled bedding, a lockable door and barrels and barrels of beer. Any man who says he needs more is lying. Or has been conned by women.'

Hawke embarked on a lengthy joke about curtains and genitalia but Anders' focus was on the heavy locks biting off the only exit.

Justice's anger was already roused by the ease with which the townspeople had let themselves be cowed by even the rag-and-scrap shadow of a Templar, falling over themselves to meet every request with a fumbling awe. His veins buzzed with the crime of good people standing by with their slack cattle-jaws. He'd had hope for the innkeeper who had regarded them with scowling suspicion, but even he had granted them the use of this cellar store with minimal complaint.

Hawke had insisted on this place – the sole place in the village with heavy locks. He'd been so specific on that point that Anders had risked their cover with a sharp kick to his ankle. Not that he finding himself giving much of a damn about their cover. It had already been an ogre's struggle fighting the urge to paint the entire complicit village with fierce blue light, and the only reason he resisted was the risk to Hawke. It was getting harder to care even about that, as the idiot kept pushing him with his tests and jokes that made no sense outside his own deranged head. And he was almost sure that Hawke was doing it on purpose.

Hawke had finished his ramble and was looking at him expectantly. Getting no response, he shook his dark head. 'The filthy pun is an unappreciated artform. Oh well.' He leapt from his perch. There was no movement in his grease-slicked hair, which stuck to his head in painted whorls. 'You can be a good student of brooding silence instead.'

He picked up his blade and helmet, and clashed about for a moment as he tried to get them both in the right place at once.

'We're leaving already?'

'No. _I'm_ leaving. You're staying here to keep up our cover while I have a snoop around.'

'Hawke -'

He raised a gauntleted hand. 'Can we skip the bit where I explain my fantastic and intelligent plan and you complain about every detail and move straight onto you agreeing that I'm right and dashing and have a little sulk.' Hawke's eyes caught his own and their light soured. He sighed, twisting the keys awkwardly around his palm. 'Look, I'm not going to be long; I'll go have a nosy and when it's dark we can do the proper stuff together.'

The affection raised by Hawke's awkwardness was trampled by the sight of the iron stem being throttled by silver fingers. 'You are not locking that door.'

'Of course I am. What kind of Templar would leave a dangerous mage unsecured?'

'A fake one. One who is getting close to having his helmeted head removed.'

'It fits the story. It's safer this way.'

'Safer? Leaving me boxed in in a room that smells like Isabela's scanties?'

A smile bubbled past Hawke's lips like an unexpected burp. It was swallowed just as quickly. 'When I say safer...' He kicked a crate with his heel and started again. 'Anders, if you really needed to get out of here, I doubt two puny locks are going to give you any trouble.'

Anders looked at the door joint. The rush to his fingers told how easy it would be to rip it apart; with fire, with the Fade, or with raw blue power. He kept the feeling there, at the tips, as a warning and a comfort. It didn't erase the itch in his shoulders, but it soothed it enough to stop him from throwing himself at the walls.

'And while you're in here, all secure and undisturbable-' Hawke faltered. Words usually fell from his mouth in an unhindered tumble, but occasionally the rules of language caught his attention long enough to trip him up. He shrugged it off. 'While you're undisturbable, you could take a look around for anything that could help us.'

'That could help us?' Anders was not clear on the specifics of Hawke's grand plan, but he had expected it to be more formidable than rooting through beer barrels. They'd left Isabela behind, for one thing..

'Yes. See if there's anything small and valuable.' Anders still didn't get it, and Hawke gave him a look that suggested he was letting his brain drip away through his nose. 'Anders, I think you should look around the isolated and secured room for anything small and valuable. And not quickly missed.'

'You want me to steal?' The thought pricked his stomach.

'We've done it before.'

They had; but that was different. Grabbing food to stave off starvation, taking clothes or coin from a man who will never use them again, those actions had the virtue of necessity. Justice was on the side of the truly needy. But stealing in advance, before the pain set in? That felt wrong. A sideways whisper told him he'd never made that distinction in his younger hasty travels. _I was ignorant; a selfish child_, he reminded himself, in a voice that echoed in his head.

'If it makes you feel better, you can just pick things out. I'll do the actual thieving.'

'Pick things out. Like your housewife.' Sometimes he could not believe the man.

'Yes darling. I won't be long.' Hawke could move quickly when he wanted to. The slick thud of bolts sliding home stopped any retort before Anders had to admit he couldn't think of one.

Hawke left the cellar before he had to hear the thump of Anders settling into a sulk.

He leapt up the cellar steps, his muscles weary from walking but glad for the alien tingle of speed. After the heavy drudgery of the past months this felt positively acrobatic.

Shouldering into the tavern, the aroma of fat and sweat and bitter ale called to him to forget his disguise and take a seat, followed by a large gulp of whatever was runny enough to fill a glass. If the atmosphere had been lively and the company kind (or at least moderately attractive) he might even have been tempted. As it was, a sinister old crone bearing a thick veil of hatred and a one-toothed grimace and her small, wheezy dog were not too hard to resist. There was more life crawling between the mutt's wiry hairs than could be found anywhere else.

Hawke angled his head to the owner, who was rearranging the tavern's three stools. 'I need to take a look around. Templar business. The prisoner is subdued. He will not be a problem.'

The man's grey cheek twitched. He nodded, but nothing else about him implied agreement. Hawke considered that it wouldn't hurt to put him at ease.

'Does anyone else have keys for that room?'

'No, messere. You've the only ones there.'

'Good. He will be no trouble; just ignore him. I won't be far.'

'Aye.' The man didn't complain, but he didn't look cheered up. Some people just didn't want to be happy. They liked being the tough gristle in life. Hawke didn't care enough to try to smooth him out.

'Good citizen.' He was enjoying this pretending. His voice boomed pleasingly in the helmet. 'I have my business to attend to. Do you have a chapel here, pray?' Less convincing. Perhaps pray was a step too far.

'No chapel here, messere. Andraste is in the manor. We make the journey to the Gaymold Chantry each month.' The man was defensive. 'We worship just as well as any man.'

'I'm sure you do. I will go and give thanks to the Bride.'

The man made a noise like a drain and stepped aside to let Hawke past. 'You'll see the manor as you step out. By the lower sheep fold, you won't miss it.'

'Much obliged.' Hawke-the-Templar said, and pushed his way into the open air. The cool breeze caressed his chin beneath the helmet and slipped chilly fingers down his neck. The door whipped shut behind him, sealing in darkness and whispers and a gnarled hand gripping something sharp.

He saw the manor house immediately. Of the few houses sprinkled through the hamlet it was the only one large enough to have two entrances. The building may have been handsome once, but its matronly face had succumbed to age and neglect and its eaves drooped with heavy resignation.

The cold air slipped through his threadbare cloak and thinner skin. It reminded him that he had left his pack and padding with Anders and he only had this shabby body to provide his bulk. He thrust his shoulders back and jutted his chin forward so that the proud hairs scratched against the stiff metal. He had to admit that the new beard gave him a thrill of masculinity, even if he sometimes caught Anders scowling at it with distaste. He puffed up his chest. It felt like inflating a bladder for sport; the weak skin pale and straining, ready for some rough child to come along and pop it. What had happened to him? He didn't recognise this sad tangle of bones and scraps that didn't move in the way he remembered. He missed his smooth, tight skin and the muscles that lay in wait for his command.

He liked the way he used to feel. He liked the way he used to look. He liked the way he used to feel about the way he used to look. Was that arrogant, like people said? Hawke thought it was just honest. He'd just known with clarity what he could do and what he made other people want to do. Or do to him. Now there was a gap between what he hoped for and the thin, frail reality and he was more fond than ever of the young man he had been.

He let his breastbone lead him as he strode down the rutted street to the manor, aware with each step of the absence in his shoulders and across his chest where his muscles weren't. But for all his weakness no-one challenged him as he claimed the street. All eyes were on him. From the indistinct shapes that shuffled past to the smudged blurs lurking behind tattered shutters, they followed him as he sauntered through the village. There weren't many eyes, and they were of dubious quality, belonging as they did to small town farmers and awed children, but the tingly glow of attention warmed him. The mud yielded beneath his feet, falling away in terrified clumps. He could swear his shirt clung a little tighter. It was almost like being the Champion again.

The feeling was fresh, and good; he could feel it cleansing him from the inside out. All those stale and bitter emotions that had settled in the tight corners in his body were nudged away with each easy roll of his shoulders. He didn't like them, anyway. They were dark, foreign feelings, so close to hate but he couldn't name them, and as they fell away they left a dirty blonde stain in his head. Anders. Hawke knew it was petty to punish him. He swore each time he succumbed to a petty act of revenge that it would be the last one. He would be better; he would remember to understand that Anders was kind, and sick, and needed his help. But then the man would push it, without even noticing. He'd complain or admonish with that blithely innocent attitude that didn't suit a murderer. He acted the victim and all Hawke could hear was the sick crash of a staff on the ground as the world opened. Anders expected more from him than he had any right to and the moment that golden face darkened with hurt it made Hawke want to shut him up. Or shut him away.

But this way was better, Hawke reminded himself. He could search uninterrupted, without Anders pestering for answers he didn't have. The guilt tickled his throat with the thought of all the answers he did have. _This is necessary. This is all necessary. _The words became a mantra as he rapped on the manor door. He had sauntered straight to the front entrance, ignoring the path to the servants' door. He looked at the feet straddling the crumbling front step and told himself they deserved to be there. They were feet with a purpose. He was a man of purpose. A man who would do what was necessary.

The world took a while to catch up, though, and he had to knock twice more before his presence received any attention. When the door finally creaked open, Hawke was greeted by the thin face of a boy of about fifteen. Large eyes and a wide mouth wobbled at the sight of him, and to Hawke it felt like he was viewing the lad through a haze of heat.

'Yes?' the boy coughed. He seemed distracted, like he was caught between helping and slamming the door. Hawke recognised this as a boy who needed direction from authority. Fortunately, Hawke had bags of authority.

'I have business here. You must take me to the Shrine of Light.'

'You mean now?'

'What else could I mean, boy?'

'Oh. Yes, messere. Please follow me.' The boy pulled the door open by the smallest margin he could manage and Hawke squeezed himself into the dim entryway.

'Please, messere, this way. You must excuse the mess.' They stepped into a large hall, littered with dull blades and long-handled equipment. There was what looked to be a loom in one corner, huddled under a moth-eaten sheet. Everywhere, white, dusty coils of wool clung to benches or skittered away from their feet. Hawke despaired; the grand room had such potential and they dealt with the bloody sheep in it. He felt a bite of mourning for his own manor. He'd left it to Carver but who knows what the brat had done with it. Filled it with Templars, or whores; for smiles and favour. Or just left the window ajar for the rats and Coterie to sneak in and have their nibbling way. No, he was sure Varric wouldn't let that happen.

'This way.' The boy darted between benches and racks, keeping something between himself and his Templar follower at all times. They crossed the room in this nervous dance, until they reached the far wall. They had ignored yawning chambers and curving staircases, seeking instead two small doors set unceremoniously in the wall. Hawke peeked through the left, into a rust-coloured vault. The nasal slap of blood and salt told him he was looking at the kitchen, where most of last year's fold would have found themselves sliced and stored in thick, salted piles. It was Cloudreach now; the stock would be coming to the end. Until next Satinalia, at least.

To the right, he could see steps sweeping down into the darkness. The boy was holding the door in front of him like a shield. 'You'll find Andraste down there, messere.' He said.

'I'll go from here alone, boy.' Hawke knew neither one of them would complain about that.

He slipped down the stairs. The darkness closed in around him and he considered for a second that this might be a trap. _You'll find Andraste down there_. Wasn't that exactly the kind of sly double remark he used to give to Varric to season his tales? Although strangely Varric never remembered to use them. At the foot of the stairs thin light picked out a doorframe in the gloom. It was quiet beyond. Hawke gripped his short sword (a present from Carver, gifted along with insults and some dubious jibes about length) and eased the door open.

There was nothing in the room. Well, there was – there was a foundering lamp and the small Andrastean shrine he'd been promised – but nothing or no-one sharp waiting to greet him painfully. It was disappointing. Just a slanted table, a statue of the Bride and a patch of shiny floor before her where knees had worn the slab. Oh, and some wilting flowers that he was sure a woman married to the Maker would be just thrilled to receive. The room didn't seem to lead anywhere. The stairs funnelled down behind him just to end in this box of stone and plaster.

This village had to be the place; it was the only place that fit. He removed his helmet and shook his hair out, trying to push the cold draught through his dusty brain. The shrine had seemed such a good place to start. He'd liked the idea. It had felt clever. It had eased some of the gnawing fear of not having a clue what he was looking for. Andraste smiled at him beatifically with that gentle patience that made him want to make lewd gestures. He settled for leaning his sword against her head as he closed his eyes. The shift in the air; that's what he was looking for. And there! The tingle in his jaw, the spider scratch through the hairs on his neck whispered that he was close. The Fade teased this room with shadowy licks.

He moved slowly about the room. Did it get dimmer here, stronger there, or was it all just his imagination? There wasn't enough space to tell. He pulled himself backwards up the stairwell, stopping when he heard muttering voices in the hall beyond. He blocked out their frantic chittering to focus on the feeling. He descended again; it was definitely stronger down the stairs. He was pretty certain. Almost.

His fingers toyed with the gritty plaster. Which other rooms shared these walls? Could a Templar just poke around this manor? He often found that all it took was the belief that you could do anything to convince other people to let you. And Hawke believed that hard. But there were always nosy sods who wanted to join in, as if danger and adventure were open to any fool with curiousity.

Damn it! He'd hoped to have this sorted before tonight. The plan was straightforward: find what they were looking for; bring Anders along; sneak away in the night with the world a simpler and better place. He couldn't do the poking around with Anders here. No, the less time Anders spent in the search the less time there was for questions (for which there were no answers), or for argument (for which there were no answers), or for grisly dismemberment of the blue variety (for which Hawke didn't have enough spare limbs).

The voices upstairs had stopped. Good. He'd give them a few minutes to clear off and then get a better look around this place. If he was caught, he was sure desperation would present the perfect explanation. Perhaps he could be a wool connoisseur. Or claim that the Templars had commissioned a new farming division to root out apostate sheep.

Behind him, the lamp sputtered and bloomed. In the fresher light the room looked different. The room closed in, smaller than he thought, and the walls stood starkly in contrasting shades of plaster. Hawke stepped across and placed a finger at the joins. One wall was much newer than the rest. He rapped, optimistically. It was not hollow, but the surfaces definitely felt different. He pushed himself against the wall, trying to open himself up to the Fade. The change was small, but noticeable if he concentrated. His stomach tugged with the dream feeling of the world falling up and away.

He was so focused on capturing the feeling that he did not notice the dark figure tiptoe down the stairs. He did not notice the gritted teeth or raised fist, or the eyes that flashed with hatred in the lamplight. He did notice the club, though. In the brief seconds between the flash of pain and dark oblivion, the club had his full attention.


	6. Mages 4

The passing of time was harder to bear since their merging. Anders had explored every inch of the tiny room three times and drafted a new manifesto chapter in his head before feet scrabbled on the floor outside. Anders settled back on a barrel and relaxed his face into bored composure. Hawke shouldn't think that he was missed.

The door flung inward. 'Bored already?' He began, but the figure that shuffled towards him wasn't Hawke. Anders leapt to his feet and readied magic in his fingers.

'Don't worry, lad, you're safe. I don't mean you no harm.' The innkeeper propped the door open with an elbow. A ring choked with keys was in his claw. So much for Hawke's promise of security.

'What's going on then?' The man was agitated and appeared unarmed, but in Anders' experience that was no guarantee of safety.

'It's a rescue, serah.' The man peered his bushy brow into the cellar. 'We should get on with it before more Templars come poking 'round.'

Templars. The bilious knot of fear and anger rose in his stomach and he hoped Hawke was ready to run again. But he also felt a swell of pride in this maker-forsaken town. A rescue? These people hadn't a coin or manner between them, but they still risked the wrath of the world for a stranger. This jittery, greying man with yesterday's dinner still clinging to his moustache would put himself in danger to help a mage. The strings of Justice running through him pulled tight and he felt sworn to protect this fraying creature. The innkeeper didn't notice the shift of the world in his favour and impatiently clucked as Anders snatched up both packs, adjusted their unusual weight, and lopsidedly followed him up the stairs.

'You took your time.' A female voice chided as they entered the tavern.

The innkeeper gave a shake of his head; instantly laying all blame on the slow mage behind him. The old woman peered out of the grime-streaked window and replied. 'It's still clear. Take him out, Shaun.'

Shaun the innkeeper abandoned gentility and pushed Anders towards a slim door. It opened into a tiny room with a desk littered with illegible receipts and explicit doodles. Shaun nudged him through another door and they stepped out into a cluttered yard. They moved quietly around the back of the tavern, eyes darting from each corner of the horizon. Anders felt very exposed. There were not enough buildings or trees to provide shelter here; the ground below them lay open like a supplicating palm. He could see no Templars, though, and the open landscape would scream their arrival instantly.

'Closest place is Little Brenning, to the north.' Growled Shaun. 'Open heather for the first hours, but you'll catch woods again soon enough if you're quick.'

'You are doing something great for mages. If I could thank you in any better way...'

'I ain't doing nothing for mages. And you can thank me by getting away from here as fast as those stick legs can take you.'

'Of course. But first -'

'First nothing!' Shaun's voice scrambled higher. 'You ain't bringing no more Templars on our heads.'

Both men skimmed the horizon. It was still blessedly clear. Anders hesitated. Shaun was glaring at him with naked frustration and his threadbare muscles bunched ready to push Anders out of the village if necessary. How to say that he couldn't leave without Hawke?

'Uncle Shaun! Uncle Shaun!' A saucer-eyed youth cannoned out of the tavern and stuttered to a knock-kneed stop between them.

'Willem! You're supposed to be keeping guard.'

'I was, Uncle Shaun. I _did._ Me and our Fred got him.'

'Good boy. Me and your dad'll be there soon.' The innkeeper kept his eyes fixed on Anders. His every twitch screamed for Anders to leave.

The boy was a quivering spring. He hopped on one gangly leg and twisted his hands. 'But Uncle Shaun, he's moving! Me and Fred – we ain't never killed anyone.'

'What?' Anders shouted. The boy recoiled and looked to his uncle.

'Don't worry.' Shaun spoke straight to Anders with stern promise. 'We'll deal with him now.' And instantly the reality of their lie slammed back into him. These people weren't warning him of Templars, they were protecting him from Hawke.

'You can't!' Anders grabbed the boy by bony shoulders. 'What have you done to him?'

The boy slithered from his grasp and stared at him in horror. He entreated his uncle. 'What's going on?'

'I'm going to find out.' The boy darted out into the village and an urgent grip wrenched Anders' arm. The innkeeper glared at him. 'Now what's your game, mage?'

Anders didn't answer, but pulled free and tore off after the boy. A snatched glimpse of shoe lead him behind a small house. He clattered into some barrels before cursing and vaulting over a chicken coop. Squawks of protest followed him as he thudded between two shacks, his packs clanking an alarm. He skidded into the small square in time to see the door slam on a heavy set building ahead of him.

No-one was giving chase, but he spared no time to wonder as he pitched up the steps and into the large hall. There was no sign of the boy, but frantic voices tumbled from a lit doorway which opened onto a thin staircase. He took the steps three at a time, landing in a room crammed with confused shouting and the hum of blood.

The lanky boy gave a cry and backed against the wall. Opposite him was a broader lad a couple of years older. This one stood firm with defiance and held a short stub of wood in a white grip. Blood shone at its tip At his feet was the slumped mass of Hawke. Thin blood haloed his head, his blank face turned to the stone. Someone had tied his hands awkwardly behind his back.

Anders knocked the boy aside and felt the blood-matted head with his hand. Only the skin was split, thank the Maker. He tried to focus beyond the wound to search for the hidden damage. The head was difficult – there was no shining beacon of pain to guide the healer to the worst. He followed the dim chug of blood, guiding the fluids before he could seal any tears.

'What is he doing?' the bruiser yelled at this friend. There was a squawked reply and fat hands dragged Anders to his feet. 'What do you think you're doing?'

'You could have severely hurt him!'

'I bloody meant to!'

'Fred!' The younger lad screeched as Hawke swung uneasily to his feet,hands still wrenched behind his back_._ Fred raised his club but Anders was stuck solid. He didn't want to hurt two children. Not when they'd taken down a supposed Templar.

Fred swung.

The scrap ended before it really began. Hawke was good at that. He was terrible in a true fight – Anders had patched together the ragged, bleeding scraps after the battle with the Arishok – but by all accounts Hawke knew where to hit people to hurt. An unexpected knife point, a threat to the illegitimate source of income, or a firm grasp of the most tender regions could stop a tussle before it got to the messy bits.

Fred groaned on the floor; toppled by his own weight and a swift kick to the knee. The younger boy was standing still behind Hawke. Unnaturally still. 'Ow.' He squeaked, as Hawke reasserted his grip on a very private area.

'Thank you for the help.' Hawke's hands were still tied but his expression made it clear he wanted nothing more than to beat Anders around the head. Anders frowned and placed his foot on Fred's back. He wasn't going to undo Hawke's bonds while he was gripping a crotch.

The thunder of feet announced company. Anders kept his foot firm on the boy as the innkeeper tumbled into the room, flanked by a thick set man in muddy boots. Both men were holding dull, scratched swords.

'What's going on?' The bigger man growled. He held the sword awkwardly, betraying his inexperience, but his thick arms looked like they could give a good swing.

'That's an excellent question.' Hawke's voice was thick, and he swayed slightly as he levelled his stare at the intruders.

Anders took a tally. The tiny room heaved with two armed men, one deranged and bleeding Hawke and two frightened boys, one sprawled and spluttering, and the other with a pleasureable area in danger of being treated very unpleasantly. Each face shared the same bent nose and bushy eyebrows. Obviously family, which only made this worse. And the swords were dull and unused, but would still do a great deal of damage if they connected.

He removed his boot from the boy and raised his hands. 'It's all right. He's a mage, too.'

'Don't listen to him! They're in it together!' Fred cried from the floor.

'Yes - because he's a mage!'

Hawke growled and there was a _whomph_ of flame. The younger boy squealed and leapt back, smacking out the flames on his trousers. Hawke brought his hands forward, shaking the smoking remains of cord from his wrists. 'So I am.' he said, as though he'd just discovered it.

Anders smiled appeasingly, ready for the relief, but it was not forthcoming. 'Oh Maker. This is bad.' Innkeeper Shaun grabbed his head in agony.

'There's four of us, dad...' the boy on the floor said, eyeing the innkeeper hopefully.

'I hope that everyone forgets that you just said that, young Frederick.' Warned the larger man, as the boy with the singed trousers slumped with relief. 'But my nephew's right.' He pushed the point of his sword towards Hawke. 'You being here gives us a problem. I don't quite know how to solve it.'

Anders felt a thick finger of steel poke his own belly. The innkeeper showed no apology as he shoved him away from Frederick, who scrambled to his feet and hung in the background with a hungry expression.

'Please keep your hands where we can see them.' Hawke snorted, but obeyed the large man's request.

'But we're mages!' Anders cried. Why weren't these people understanding? 'He's not really a Templar.'

'I'm sorry.' The innkeeper's voice was quiet. 'We didn't want to hurt you.' The man's hand was shaking; Ander's could feel the sword tip scratch at his belly.

'The feeling is mutual.' Hawke warned. He was staring straight at the large man, who held his gaze solidly.

The man heaved a sigh and set his shoulders. The sword was unwavering. 'This is not what I wanted.' His voice was serious. 'At all.' The unspoken 'but' waited; a primed trap ready to snap. The four men stood stock still. Anders readied his magic. Hopefully they could make this as bloodless as possible.

'Dad?' A boy of no more than twelve poked his head into the room. His skin was pale and he gripped the doorframe as though sick.

The large man did not move but there was a new fear in eyes. 'Go to your mother, Gregory.'

The tufted head turned first to his father, then started in fright as it registered the flamed brand on Hawke's chestplate. He scanned the rest of the room and wavered but managed a small defiance. 'I don't want anyone hurt because of me.'

And then Anders understood. The poor boy, white knuckled and haloed in fear. Afraid of himself. Afraid of his magic. Afraid for his family. _They make it this way._ The thought was solid fury._ This should never happen._

'Go to your mother, Gregory.' The large man was pleading this time.

The boy mustered all of his courage to make the final step into the room. He planted his feet firmly and forced his head straight. 'No.' he said.

'Gregory - '

'You don't like it down here, do you Gregory?' Hawke spoke gently. He was using his children and lunatics voice.

'Don't you talk to him.' The man snapped, jabbing the exposed skin of Hawke's neck. 'None of them should be here; Willem – take your brother home.'

Hawke ignored him, despite the insisent steel. 'You don't like it down here, do you Gregory?' He waved a hand conspiratorially and let electricity dance across his fingertips.

Gregory gasped and stared again at his chestplate. He shrugged off his brother and shook head violently.

'You think there's something bad in here.'

The sword point pushed him to the wall. It tilted into the fleshy overhang of his jaw as his abuser muscled closer. 'You shut up.'

Hawke talked faster. 'There's something bad.' He pushed back against the wall and rapped. 'Behind here.'

The big man paused, teeth gritted. 'How'd you know?'

Hawke focused on the boy; his words a swift rattle. 'You thought I was a Templar. But whatever's shut up here is more scary?'

'We need to get rid of them.' The innkeeper poked Anders' stomach impatiently, but he sounded afraid rather than bloodthirsty. Anders really didn't want to have to hurt him.

Hawke talked sweetly around the sword to his throat. 'Give us some time. No-one's following us. We take a quick look at your problem and then we're gone.'

'And why would you do that?'

'Gratitude. For letting us go.'

'Oh, yes?' The man gave a half-laugh. He looked from his sword to the staring faces of his sons and his face crumpled. 'Well, whatever your reasons, it won't work. That door's plastered up good and proper. There's no getting through it quickly.'

'This door?' Hawke fixed his shoulders, both palms flat against the wall. Magic swelled and there was a brief explosion of noise as the whole panel flew back in a solid lump.

Puffs of plaster swirled in the silence. Hawke stood still, framed by chilly darkness. 'Give us until sunrise.' he said. 'We go in, we leave and we were never here.'

The man snapped his teeth ready to argue. He caught sight again of the tattered fringes of wall and thought better of it.

A serious little voice rang out. 'It's bad down there.'

'Shut up Gregory!' Everyone whipped their heads to the boy. Everyone except the large man. He kept his eyes and sword fixed on Hawke.

'Until sunrise.' Hawke coaxed. 'We either leave, or you seal this up again. In the morning we were never here.'

The man looked from Hawke to the hole and back again. He sighed. 'As if I have a choice.'


	7. Grey Wardens

If there was a good way to spend an afternoon, thought Carver, this was not it. A late afternoon drink in a field with a sweet girl and tall hedgerows would be ideal. Lining up darkspawn for skewering would have purpose. Maker, even gallivanting around with Garrett had the benefit of variety.

No, being a repository for the angry spittle of some Anderfel hag came very far down the list.

He couldn't tell from her garbling, but the pitch of her voice told him she'd just asked a question. He looked at her companion for help, who dutifully translated. 'The darkspawn destroyed our home; our livelihoods. She says her entire stocks have been sullied. She wants to know what you plan to do about it.'

She was regarding him with a red eyed scowl, puffed up and bristling. She reminded him of an owl he'd seen back in Lothering, Its nest had got bashed during one of their games. He'd put it back together as best he could, but it hadn't been enough. She fluttered her scarf accusingly. The man himself did not seem expectant; his heavy mouth sagged in apology for suggesting he could do something for them. For Carver, that was somehow worse.

'We are trying to find out what happened.' he said. 'To try to stop it happening again. So if you can give me any information that would really help.'

The man rattled off a series of scratchy consonants in the woman's hairy ear. What kind of people didn't speak the Common Tongue nowadays? The same people who left their teeth to brown and thought five gold was an appropriate price for strips of stinking blubber.

However the man had translated his request, it was not what the old woman wanted to hear. She burst like a pot boiling over, shaking and shouting across the floor of the little shop. A bony finger was thrust in his face before she thought the better of it and slapped her hands at the other man instead. Her shouts were oddly punctuated and Carver did not need to know the language to understand their meaning. He recognised swearing when he heard it. It went on for some time. She must have been very imaginative, Carver had to give her that.

She subsided and spat on the floor, shaking her head in disgust. The man – her husband? Son? The leathery faces were impossible to age – turned to Carver. 'She said she is sorry she cannot help more.'

'And that's all she said?'

The man shrugged, unembarrassed. 'I am sorry. There is nothing to tell you. It was how it always is in this country.'

'How do you mean?'

'The darkspawn come. They kill and they leave. Then the Grey Wardens come. Always too late.' Carver studied the sags of his face for a hint of cheek, but there wasn't even resentment. Just a weary resignation. Carver had imagined that surely here e a Grey Warden he would be respected and feared. Or at least regarded as quaint curiosities like in Ferelden. He hadn't expected the response from this trip, where he was just a nuisance like rain or rodents.

'Well, thank you for your assistance.' He'd no sooner nodded his head than the crone was flapping him out of the door. He stepped out into the silent streets with a long breath. He let his coin fall back firmly in his pocket.

Beisumpf couldn't have been much to look at even before the darkspawn hit it. Gates and storefronts showed ragged, weeping edges where the darkspawn had scythed their path, but beyond and around that were the tatters of a town long past being cared for. He picked past battered carts and faint stains where the omnipresent drizzle had dragged blood into cracks and corners. Pushing through a miraculously intact sidestreet, he emerged into the central square. This place must have meant something once; the large, wide flags cried out for crowds and rows of grand houses elbowed for position around the central fountain. Now, though, the space felt too big, like the town was pulling away from itself in embarrassment, and the fountain was still, except for a dwarf swinging his feet into its empty bowl.

'Hello Bardolf.' The dwarf was picking at his nails with a crossbow bolt. 'Could you find it in yourself to not do that?' Carver wouldn't normally mind, but the kind of stuff under his stubby fingernails was likely to spark, and he was the one supposed to be guarding the packs.

'Didn't go well, I take it?'

'Not brilliantly, no. Not that this tour of the wretched armpits of the world isn't educational, but I thought Grey Wardens were more in the defending the world from the darkspawn line, not being yelled at by Granny Misery.'

'Ah, Granny Misery: the greatest threat to life as we know it since the archdemon.'

'I'm not joking. What are we doing here, Bardolf?

'Couldn't tell you.' Bardolf twisted the bolt to his leg and began scratching it at his knee. He looked perfectly content. It drove Carver mad.

'I can tell you; this is a nonsense mission for nonsense wardens.' He flumped onto the dirtiest pack in the certainty that it was his own. The dwarf still looked perfectly at peace and Carver wasn't going to ignore it any more. 'We're here because we're trouble.' He looked around to check they were alone before ticking their paltry group off on his fingers. 'A disgraced Commander, an apostate picked up in a shitstorm that they don't even trust enough to make a proper Warden, and you.' He paused with his finger extended. 'I don't know what you did, but it must have been very bad or very stupid.'

'Me? I volunteered.'

'Ha. So I'm right – very stupid.'

'It's been said.' Bardolf was uninsultable. Carver had never been able to decide whether he liked or loathed that about him. 'So why are you here, Carver, with the dregs?'

'Because I have an idiot brother who just couldn't stoop to using his first name. And the Grey Wardens don't take kindly to Templars and crazy mages trying to snap up another Hawke.'

Bardolf inched the bolt into his boot before giving it a disgusting wriggle. 'I don't suppose they take too kindly to a Warden dropping his duties to start a war with said brother, either.'

'Oh. So you heard about that, then.' The dwarf had never mentioned it, so he'd dared hope the story hadn't reached way out here. It was always too much to hope for.

'Oh yes, boy.' Bardolf smiled. It was the same one he used when he had been disguising a full set in Wicked Grace. 'Though as a fan of high drama, I must say that you have the innocent martyr speech down perfectly.'

Carver flung himself backwards into the cool embrace of the fountain, sweeping his hand over his forehead. 'Maker take your loving servant and forgive these mouthy dwarves their poor attempts at humour.'

'There's options for death scenes aplenty in this line of work, kid. Though why you'd rather do it neck deep in shit and guts in the Deep Roads I can't imagine.'

'I don't love the Deep Roads. But I'd rather be doing my job, not shoved to some backwater to keep me out of trouble.' He stayed on his back and stared at the sky. The flat grey slab might have been from the Deep Roads without the sifted rain across his throat, keeping him tied to the world. To fresh air, and safety, and to squabbles on the surface. 'My brother is hundreds of miles away, doing whatever stupidly dangerous thing harebrained revolutionaries do, and he's still managing to dictate my life.'

'My, my Carver. Is that concern I detect?'

'Ha!' The scoff was more forceful than he'd like. If he let himself be worried about what idiotic thing Garrett was doing, he'd never have time for anything else. 'Do you only listen to the words that interest you?'

'Moan all you like, but I know this grouchiness is covering some brotherly worry buried deep down.'

'Get stuffed.'

'Deep, _deep_ down.'

'Are you talking about the fountain?' A brittle-bright voice slashed their companionable bickering. Riona's boots were softer than her voice and she padded between them, leaning her staff to the floor.

'No.' Carver said firmly, squinting at her through the rain.

'Oh. Because it does go deep down. It used to come from an underground river. And then it came out of this hand here.' She climbed into the fountain base, stepped around Carver's head and placed her fingers in the statue's hand. It was outstretched, palm upwards, with a dark hole where the water would have flowed, pouring down through the fingers to the bowl below. 'He was a stranger who rescued the town. From a plague of darkspawn – or rats, they weren't very clear - ' she towered ice into the cold palm, 'and they don't remember his name. But he was a mage. And they made him a statue.'

Carver twisted his head to look up at the statue in the centre of the fountain. A mage. That made sense; the face, what was left of it, was stretched with the smug arrogance Carver associated with most mages. He noted with pleasure that a bird had crapped in its hair. No-one had cared about this statue for a long time. It was a relic of a former age, a piece of ignorable background like their little group of Grey Wardens. But Riona was caring about it now. She was gazing at the stone eyes with an almost indecent intensity.

It might be nice to see, if it wasn't directed at some stupid bird-stained mage statue. He lay still on his back, trying not to disturb her, watching her smile through the cracks of stone fingers.

'Ow!' Freezing droplets assaulted his eyeball. He flung himself upright, nearly knocking the others out of the fountain.

'Whoa!' shouted Bardolf. 'There's a dwarf with a bolt in sensitive places over here.'

'Don't blame me.' Carver rounded on the mage. 'What are you dribbling ice over a statue for, anyway?'

'I thought it would be nice to see it work. Just for a minute.' She stepped away from the statue, but left the spire of ice fixed, ready to gently melt away. 'I'm sorry Bardolf.'

'There's no unwanted piercings. So no harm done.' said the dwarf, but he put his bolt away with trembling hands.

'I'm sorry to you, too, Carver.'

'I'll get over it.' He rubbed his eye on the back of his hand and wiped it on the statue's coat.

Riona shuffled towards him, which meant she wasn't done talking. 'Perhaps this will help?' she rifled through the folds in her robes and for a moment he was hypnotised by surprise until she pulled a small brown object from a hidden pocket. 'I brought you this.' She handed it to him.

It was a figure made from dough. The smell he recognised as ginger from the occasional fancy parties he'd stomped through on the way to proper work. The little baked man was thick and solid, with screwed up eyes and three legs.

'It's deformed.' he said.

'Or a very flattering portrait.' observed Bardolf. Carver could feel the grin slithering across the dwarf's face.

'No, no! That one's the sword. That's why it's Carver. Also, it looked so serious.' Carver glared at the gingerbread man. It pursed its sultana mouth back at him.

'I hope you can get your money back.' He said.

'Oh, I got it for free. As a gift.'

The gingerbread crumbled a little in his grip. 'I get yelled at, and you get pastries. How does that work?'

'I have a sunny disposition.' She sing-songed, flashing white teeth and swaying her robes. 'And a charming manner.'

'Or perhaps people just want to give your mouth something else to do.' But he knew he was being miserable, and it wasn't anywhere near fun enough when it simply slipped off her like silk. He snapped off the offending 'sword' and nibbled at it. 'Gah!' He couldn't help but spit.

'Is he bitter?' she asked.

He swallowed the offending piece quickly before it could spend more time assaulting his tongue. 'Far too sweet'.

'Oh no, that doesn't sound right, does it Carver?' She made childish noises at the biscuit before smiling brightly at him.

Bardolf laughed. 'I'll take it if you're not interested.' he offered.

'You lost your chance.' Carver replied. If they didn't think him sweet, he wasn't going to let them down. He tucked the gritty man into the outer pocket of his pack.

Riona's spirits wouldn't be dampened. 'Oh lovely!' she said. 'A mascot.'

The smart click of boots signalled the presence of the Warden-Commander. Her voice was sharp. 'Have I returned to my unit, or a pack of children?'

Carver stood to attention, Riona folded her hands attentively. The dwarf remained lolling in the fountain, although even he pulled his limbs a little smarter. 'Is that a crack about my height, boss?'

'I will give you a crack of a different sort if you prefer, Bardolf.'

'No thank you, ma'am.'

'Then report.'

'Not a peep, boss. Any darkspawn are long gone. A lot of property damage; some crispy bits from darkspawn, but most of it just shoddy human construction. But there's no Deep Roads entry; this crowd came across land.' Carver wondered how Bardolf could be so definite, given that he'd been lumped as base camp, but the Commander simply took the dwarf's word and turned to him.

'Carver?'

What to say? That the only thing less pleasant in this town than a darkspawn attack would be spending time with its residents. 'Not much more to add. Seems like they hit sometime [last month], left almost as long ago. Property got damaged, people killed. Sounds like darkspawn as usual.'

'Riona?'

'They came from the north thirty days ago, at a best guess. They hit the north-west corner of town first, out at the Heibbel warehouse. That's how they had so much notice; the flames caught quickly. They were a nice family, apparently; the Heibbels. Most people fled south on the road towards Nordbotten. They'd not had an attack like this before, but they obviously know about the darkspawn and Dame Bernleif's sister lives near the Hunterhorns so she knew a bit about it. The people that ran away didn't come back for weeks, and when they did anyone who had fought was dead. They heard it all later from the people who stayed. Some of them had hid in the attic rooms and survived. That is, if they weren't one of the houses to catch fire. That happened to one family. They had three children. Everyone was very upset.' Riona finally paused. Carver saw with surprise that she looked ready to cry. He took his lead from the Warden-Commander, who just waited silently, her face unchanged. 'Anyway, the people who hid stayed in their hideyholes for days, until they were sure they were gone. But one man says he saw them running out of the south gates on the first day, and that there were no more after that.'

Carver was floored. They'd only arrived this afternoon; too long for his liking, but surely not long enough to get the lifestory of every sod in the town. She saw him staring and explained. 'People like talking to me.'

It was an irritating habit Garrett had, too. He couldn't turn a corner without someone throwing their darkest secrets at his feet. To Carver it seemed that the trick of getting people talking was to let them. And that only caused trouble.

The Warden-Commander frowned and her eyes twitched upward. Carver was used to it – he'd started thinking of it as reporting to the council in her head. They waited until her face settled, when Bardolf asked 'Why did they come here? Why come so far from the Deep Roads?'

'That is not the biggest puzzle.'

'What is?' Asked Riona. Carver sniffed to show that the question was daft, but not so loud that the Commander would ask him the answer.

Bardolf rescued them. 'The question is; since when did darkspawn leave people alive?'


	8. Mages 5

The first half hour of exploration under the manorhouse had been calm and quiet; but the kind of quiet with a sharp, slippery edge. Behind Hawke's demolished door was a cobweb-choked room more than twice the size of the one they'd come through. The dark stains of colour where pictures once hung and thick benches thrust to the back of the room suggested it was probably once a worship space for the whole house. The whole village, maybe. Yet they'd blocked it off to make do with their paltry shrine. Why? Yet another boarded-up passageway on a side wall told Anders it probably wasn't a good reason..

Once they'd pushed through that it had only been dark, cramped tunnels and choking corners snapping off into thick black, their kindled light lapping timidly at rough stone and shadow. Their progress was slow, as they eliminated routes blocked by shifted rock or twists into anterooms with nothing more than debris, the flames in their hands snapping at the dust in the air. He dared to hope that this was just a creepy cellar, and old corners and crates were all that they'd find, but then the walls abruptly smoothed and widened and he knew he was wrong. Although the air was still dusty and silent, these corridors were deliberate, rather than the tunnels they'd been scraping through that seemed nibbled from bare rock. Something had had a reason for walking around down here. As they descended, Hawke's frame grew tighter. Anders knew it was an excitement, or an anticipation, that he could not share. The hairs on his arms screamed a warning. A path meant purpose. A disused path usually meant something bad at the end of it.

And if they needed any more signs of foreboding someone had helpfully assembled a makeshift barrier across the main pathway. It was just thick wood and hasty nails, but its message was clear.

Anders didn't need the warning - the power here licked at his skin. At first he had presumed the knots of tunnel were intended to provide an extension to the house above. But the deeper they delved, the more he was convinced that the Chantry rooms were built _because _of the tunnel, feeling a spiritual shift in the world and claiming it for Andraste. It wouldn't be the first time the Chantry appropriated a place of power for its own use.

Hawke barely acknowledged the criss-crossed barrier before planting a foot on it. It shuddered after the first blows, and shattered when Hawke gave a final thrust with his magic. The prickles on Anders' neck assembled into an army. The remaining ribcage of wood permitted probes of light, which were swiftly drowned by darkness. The air chilled as they stepped out of the corridor and the tremble of their small flames slowly revealed a large room and a cavernous roof supported by towering pillars. Plain walls and a rough floor indicated that this wasn't a luxurious area when it was in its prime.

They moved left, tracing one wall, hands and light shivering against the rough surface until they were swallowed by new shafts, their slim throats yawning off into darkness. Hawke dived straight down the first, returning seconds later. 'Blocked.' he whispered, 'Can't tell if it's deliberate.'

A few more timid steps revealed another passageway. They ducked in, Anders peering into the dark around Hawke's broad shoulders. There was room for more than two abreast but front- and rear-guard was a Grey Warden habit that gave him a crumb of comfort in the eerie, dark places of the world. They crept forward, their steps screeching their presence, the only sound in the ear-scratching silence. Except - 'did you hear that?' he hissed.

Hawke whirled, the flames trapped in his hand blinding Anders. He screwed his eyes tight and the afterimage jumped and stuttered on his lids with a ghostly grimace. He strained to hear the sound again. His own heartbeat fluttered in his ears and he couldn't remember what the sound had been. A moan, or a scratch – he couldn't capture the sound, just remember the dread stab of it in his neck. Now there was only the rushing of breath over the swallowing silence. He kept his eyes closed and concentrated, until he fancied he could hear creak of his own muscles, but there was no new sound.

'Anders?' Hawke's voice was barely a breath. 'What?'

'Nothing. I must have imagined it.' He opened his eyes to see Hawke staring at him, tight as a drum, with eyes creased and fractured in the fire glare.

'Oh.' Then, 'Lower that, would you?'

Anders moved his hand down, curling his fingers carefully around the magic. Hawke turned and stepped forward again. His silhouette was sharper now, full of wary angles, with his arms tensed and waiting for the strike. Anders felt the silence creep round him and Hawke rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to clear the shadows that weren't there.

Hawke's light snapped out. His shout chased away the silence like a thunderclap.

'Hawke!' Anders thrust his flames higher of him, their desperate tongues seeking out a lost partner. The glow sliced along a in gash the floor and trickled into void below. 'Hawke?'

'Ow.' The hiss escaping the chasm was followed by sickening cracks.

Anders pitched to the lip of a large hole and saw Hawke awkward and tumbling, snared in a mass of cold, stripped bones. Their smooth edges should have reflected his light, but they sucked it away into their purple-yellow streaks. There were hundreds of skeletons piled into the pit; Anders couldn't tell how far their clawed limbs twisted and groped down into the stone.

Hawke wedged his foot in a section of the foul pile and attempted to stand up. Bones popped and cracked like dry timber. A skull grinned as its bulbous head split under the weight. Scores of hollow sockets stared expectantly at Anders as he reached down into the pit.

'No.' Hawke batted him away, their hands grazing as he wobbled. 'Take my stuff and keep the light steady.' Hawke crouched and shrugged the straps from his shoulders. Anders took it and tried to hold his right palm still.

Once his footing was sure Hawke could easily reach the lip of the pit and he pulled and puffed himself to Anders' feet. Bones hissed and chittered behind him.

'A hole full of corpses?' Anders whispered. 'You bring me to the most romantic places.' Quiet descended again, scratching in his skull like bone shards. 'This is not a good place to be.'

'I don't know what you're worried about; that's exactly where I'd keep my creepy bone stash.' Hawke joked and moved out casually, but Anders noted that he'd pulled out his staff and was gripping its stunted shaft tightly. 'Besides, let's always be grateful when the inhabitants of sinister dungeons are already dead.'

They probed two more alcoves to find the the pattern mirrored – the furthest path blocked and the other terminating in another well choking with remains. It was still deathly quiet but the air crawled with anticipation. Hawke must have felt it, too, he was gripping the staff like a diving rod, its round bald head seeking into the shadows. Anders wished they had proper staffs, built for power and use and not a sorry disguised compromise. His own hands felt conspicuously empty.

They edged back between the pillars into the main vault of the room. The hall itself was bare, save for empty sconces and darkened slits where new passages opened across the opposite wall. Sliced down the length of the room was a shallow channel, disappearing into the ground at one wall. It was stained with use, the open throat dark with filth. Or something else.

Their light fell on a hulking shape in the darkness. His pulse bucked and Hawke's flames flared. It was just a slab, thick and ugly, its large back occupying most of the far end of the hall. Anders' throat clenched with bitter fear. The air pricked around him and his teeth ached. Something wrong happened here. The Fade felt too close, scratching at his skull.

Hawke stole into the room, finding the last scrap of a torch in a sconce. He coaxed it to life, the light skimming shadows across the walls. They pooled in dark twists on the far wall behind the slab. A frieze, maybe? Or a door. Anders hung back as Hawke inspected the slab, his fingers picking at chips in the stone. 'Blood.' he said, in the same flat way he ordered drinks. He smoothed a hand over the level stone top, then followed it down to the floor, where the slab straddled the gutter. In the darkness, Anders could see his face licked by a sickly green light. That wasn't right; Hawke's own magic was a clean white. The Fade's prickle grip tightened and his gut twisted a warning.

'Anders!' Hawke's voice was breathless with excitement. 'You should see this. I think it's the Veil. Or whatever you get when you take the Veil away. Non-veil? Unveil?'

'I've seen it before, Hawke. You need to come away.'

'You can't let me have anything first. Maker, you sound just like Carver.' His eyes were wide and shimmering green.

'I mean it, Hawke.' Anders backed away from the altar. Visions of the Blackmarsh rattled in his head. He felt the Baroness' piercing light, followed by the dim, static colours and the sensation of being trapped in its drab palate. The shock of silent, cold hands where his gauntlets should shine. The mouth that moved with aching slowness. Anders rebelled against the memories. 'No! They're yours - not mine.' He hissed, as if saying it aloud would exorcise them. But the fear was theirs together; it bubbled and broke, bursting from his skin in blue lines. He wouldn't be trapped again.

'Anders?'

'We have to leave here.' He gritted his teeth and forced himself above the fear. _We did that already, _it was a reminder to himself, _we righted that injustce. _'Hawke – a tear in the Veil is not a good thing.'

'It is if it means you're on the right track.'

'The right track to what?' Anders dragged himself to the present and felt the burn of Justice recede. The Fade buzzed around his ears. He pulled his magic close.

'You got yourself under control?' Hawke didn't wait for an answer, but checked Anders' eyes and knelt down. 'I'm just going to try -'

A chittering swept the hall. Hawke leapt up, as though bitten. The air turned biting cold. Lipless voices scrabbled round the walls and tunnelled in his head, he couldn't understand the words as they hissed and swarmed around them.

'Can we leave? I think we should leave.'

'I don't know.' Hawke looked longingly at the ornate door in the far wall and then started as the air between it and him grew thicker and darker.

The darkness peeled apart and Hawke staggered back as black tendrils snaked towards him. They swelled and writhed, the smoky black coalescing into a lean, monstrous form. The horror snapped its jaws and raised daggered fingers. The sickly clack-scrape of dry bone echoed from the pit rooms.

'Run!' shouted Hawke and they barrelled back the way they came.

Two shades blocked their way. Hawke tilted and pushed them with a sweep of magic. The bodies quivered, but did not fall and he followed it up with his staff. A blast of magic caught the first mid-reach, and he thrust the solid head into the second, knocking the two together so that Anders could blast them with ice.

Hawke roared in frustration as skeletal corpses rattled out to cut off their exit. He swung his staff like a club to shatter the ice statues and levelled it at the throng. Anders willed lightning to his fingers then felt the change in the substance of the Fade like the pressure of a storm and barely had time to work his magic into a shield before the wave hit them. The horror pulled its hands together in another knot of casting and Anders poured all his concentration into protective cover. Hawke would have to cause all the damage for them. Anders could feel the man's twists and lashes with the Fade as he wove the shield snugly around him and braced for a second impact.

Hawke grunted. Anders panicked to find the weakness in their cover, but the flight of shattered bones proved it was just battle noise. Hawke burst his boot through one downed skull, then set about tossing the crowd like pins. The crowd was haggard but busy and Anders pushed some of the Fade into his protections, bolstering Hawke with strength and speed as he tore at ivory limbs.

He stepped away from the fray. It brought him closer to the horror but its stretched peg arms preferred to summon puppets and magics than stab into him directly. Its attention scorched his back and the next flash of sickly magic rocked him. He couldn't protect them like this long.

Orange heat bloomed and singed his eyebrows. Hawke was using fire, which was very bad. He couldn't control it and it lashed out of him when he was growing tired or desperate. Scorched bones plinked as they cooled on the flags but a handful of corpses remained standing, flames eating at whatever foul fabric kept them together.

Hawke moved the air with one hand, swinging the staff like a club in the other. The stout stick had poor focus, trickling energy away and tiring the mage wielding it, but it knocked skulls from spines as well as any other staff. Three rushed him together and he lifted them into the air before slamming them down, extinguishing the flames and scattering them across the floor in time to gasp a breath.

Anders readied for the next assault from the horror, but none came. It was facing him, blank eyes covered, but he could tell it was watching. Waiting. He knew it could keep grinding them down until it was ready to devour whatever pieces remained of them.

'Hawke -' he turned to see a corpse charging him; flames wreathing its torso and Hawke was a tangled grunt of limbs in no place to help. Yellow tongues licked a scorching fist as it reached for him. He'd be no good wrenched apart. Anders siphoned a little magic from his shield and froze the corpse solid.

Magic pierced him as the horror took its chance. He fell to his knees and willed everything he had into the barrier. The ghastly pain receded, but it was harder to concentrate. He daren't give magic to anything else. 'Hawke!'

Boots clattered into his vision and the man crouched over him. A syrupy pressure descended that signalled they were snared in one of Hawke's experiments with gravity.

'Yes?'

'I can't keep this up.'

'We need a new plan.' Hawke nodded slowly and his sweat dripped into Anders' ear. The final spell was a tricky one; it always took it out of him. The horror was advancing, fingers twisting slowly but not slowly enough. 'Do you suppose it's too late to invite Carver back?'

'Hawke!' Anders hissed. How impending did doom have to be to focus his mind? The dry clatter of the first of reinforcements echoed from beyond the hall.

Hawke blanched. That impending, then. 'All right. New plan. Can you stop the magic?'

'I'm trying -'

'No. All of it.'

'What? Against that?' It was impossible, it was breaching a river with a stone, it was pissing into the damned wind -

'Now, Anders!'

Speed rushed back to the world the spells around them collapsed. Anders reached into the Fade connection, severing its influence. The horror screeched and he felt it clawing around his barrier, thirsting for the power. Anders forced his own being to the source, attempting to trap all the energy before the [demon] could consume it. It screeched again, as Hawke vaulted the altar and tackled it to the floor.

Anders forced himself to concentrate on suppressing the connection. It was hard – it was agony. The horror was pulling magic through and beyond him, coiling it into magic that sputtered out but burned him as it failed. It was struggling, but it still had the greedy affinity with the Fade of its kind. He needed Justice's power for this kind of effort, but Justice couldn't defeat the Fade; it burned through him.

Hawke yelled. The horror had used its claws to gouge his face and Anders rallied; it hadn't used magic. He redoubled his efforts; it was still like trying to breach a river with a stone, but he saw that while he could never stop the water, if he placed the stone _just so _the river would split and change and that could be enough. Hawke snarled, gripping the claws away from his face and wedging his foot under the thing's jaw, trying to kick its head from the torso. Anders forced himself above the fatigue. This demon was shambling and weak, he could feel it now, and one clean breach of its feeble outer form would do it, body gutted, the shred of strained flesh, the piercing scream of defeat.

The scream that came was Hawke's. A legless corpse had crawled unseen and pierced him from behind. The sharp splinter of one of its own limbs was embedded in the soft flesh of his side. He fell to the floor in stunned agony. Instinct pushed Anders to reach for the Fade, to help him, to save him.

The dam broke. A blast threw Anders to the floor. He scrabbled for his magic, but it slipped from his grasp. The horror pulled itself slowly upright and, with painful deliberation, ignored him. Hawke's screams burned, but Anders couldn't summon the energy to move more than a pleading hand. Justice was ready, the power buffeted his defences but the Fade was tainted and he was too afraid to unleash him here, with Hawke so close to the monster and unable to defend himself. Not yet. Not yet. The remaining corpse was in shattered pieces next to him. The horror had no need of it any more, with its victims pinned and ready for the devouring. Hawke was quiet now; mouth tight with agony. The monster poised over him, plucking at life force. Anders twisted his hand around one of the slim bones and flung it.

'Leave him!'

Horror whipped; Anders was stiff and agonisingly slow but managed to raise his head. It lunged at him, leaving Hawke still on floor, blood a sickly bloom below him. Was he far enough away?

The horror reached out, its dark tendrils of influence seeking a weakness, an entry. The defensive rush of anger and disgust flared within him and he let Justice announce his presence..

The demon recoiled, filthy black claws snatched back as though burned.

'Contaminated!' it accused, in a hiss scorched timber.

He'd felt it, this beast. It was weak and shambling, with only mana to knit it together. It could still be forced to suffer for taking what was not deserved. He gathered his strength to charge at it, only to find himself held fast to the floor. His arms were heavy and leaden – power bubbled within him that he couldn't direct. He had given it an opening and the more he fought the weaker he felt as the grip of the paralysis tighten.

Foul breath spat disgust in his face. A black sickness poisoned his system, worming through his bones and his spirit. He steeled himself against its influence, but still it dragged against his power, souring his vitality with it. Dismissing him, the figure turned and hulked over the panting Hawke.

'You cannot defeat me.'

'Give me a moment.' He coughed, clutching his side as wisps of magic danced through his fingers. 'We'll make it best of three.'

'The outcome is fixed. You will die. Your companion dies, even now.'

Hawke glanced at Anders, eyes creased with pain and determination. Anders snarled his defiance, even as the sickening grasp pulled yet more energy from him. Fear boiled in his veins and he felt his skin burst with Justice's efforts. His skin squeezed and tightened as the battle between the demon's magic and the spirit's resistance played out across his flesh. Anders felt more _Anders _as the pain increased; Justice was losing.

His pain must have been visible as Hawke tried feebly to rise. His Champion's shoulders sagged, without their usual square of arrogance. The demon swatted him and he clattered back to the floor.

'You are weak. You cannot defeat me.'

Hawke pushed himself awkwardly to his knees. The demon grasped his head with one hand. It twisted and writhed with pleasure as it tasted the thoughts of a grimacing Hawke.

Anders yelled in frustration. Justice raged to no avail as the demon's magic exhausted him. The curse smothered their connection and left him drained. He felt as though he had been scraped out with a white-hot knife.

Hawke's eyes were squeezed shut as the demon forced its fingers across his skull. It hissed in satisfaction. 'You have been run from your home by the men of flames and you do not have the strength to reclaim it.'

Hawke grunted as his head was yanked back. The demon jeered directly in his face. 'You are weak.' Suddenly the probing hand was still. 'I could make you strong.'

Its breathing was a beguiling hiss in the silence.

'Are you offering me a deal?'

'I am offering you power. Power to take what you most want. Power to wrest your home from their tin hands.'

Anders felt the rough sweep of Justice in his lungs as he spoke. His own words thundered around his head. 'We will have no demon. The cause of mages is ours. We will see it done.'

The demon sputtered with rage. Anders slumped as his body regained control, then screamed as foul magic sliced into his body. He spasmed in the dirt as the life was drawn from him, chased by burning pain. The thrill of Justice could not keep the power at bay and the blue at the edge of his vision was quickly eaten away by creeping black. His heart hammered; hislimbs flooded with poison and he could feel each breath plucked roughly from him. As dark agony descended he knew this would be the end, deep in the dark, writhing like an insect pinned to paper.

'Wait!' Hawke's cry pierced the rush in his ears.

The demon's influence left him. He could feel nothing but a numb relief, having barely enough energy to draw gulping breaths.

'Why should I trust you?

The blackness swathed Anders – it was all he could do to fix his attention to the voices. _It's a __demon! Don't let it talk – don't listen!_

'I am offering you a gift. The power to take what you most want. Your city. They have taken it from you; run you out like a rat. Together we could take it back.'

'And in return -' Hawke sucked air between his teeth. His side would still be painful. 'I suppose you take my body? Because I'm not overly impressed with what you've done to that one.'

'No.' The demon's voice was thick and hungry. 'We are to be … companions.'

The ensuing silence was too long. Hawke wouldn't. He just wouldn't. He couldn't possibly be thinking -

'If it's a bargain, we'll do it the human way.'

'The human way?' The words hit the floor like poison.

'If we are going to Kirkwall, you'll need to learn to handshake.' _Handshake? What was Hawke __doing? _Unable to open his eyes, he could only listen in horror to the scrape of boot and strained grunts as Hawke heaved himself to his feet.

Anders' tongue weighed heavy in his mouth. His jaw was clenched shut. And agonised gurgle was all the warning he could manage.

He was completely ignored.

'We deal.' Hawke's voice was leaden with certainty. He could picture Hawke's hand, extended, exposed, and then the hot bursting violation as the horror shed its old body and took him whole. And then the hall was alive with the screams of the demon and Hawke shouting in pain. The air tingled with a glimmer of magic before it was snuffed out and something heavy collapsed to the floor.

Anders couldn't breathe. He could barely cling to the world; hope, fear and horror swirling in the dark of his head, dragging him down, down and far away. Beneath it all, the deep cold pit of regret. So much left undone.

A hand grabbed his shoulder. 'Anders? Anders!'

Hands patted him urgently before rolling him on his back. Warmth blossomed in his skin. His muscles twitched and his heart leapt as the healing magic probed its way into his chest. Most of the magic was lost, it rolled and broke across his skin in unfocused waves, but enough sank in to aid his breathing. Just enough.

'Anders, come on. I'm no good at this.'

Hawke's face crumpled with relief when Anders finally forced his eyes open. His breath came in short bursts as different parts of his body woke, each registering the very presence in a new uniquely painful way. He was too exhausted to do anything about it now.

'Lyrium.' he choked. Hawke scrabbled around in his robe before holding the small vial aloft triumphantly. When he saw that Anders stood little chance of administering it himself he scooted behind him, lifting his head into his lap and gently passing the blue liquid between his lips. The tang bit at his tongue but sang through his veins. He felt a great weight lifting, his senses retuning, hesitant at first, bringing him small gifts; the sound of his own breathing, the glint of torchlight reflected in Hawke's eyes, the salt of blood across his teeth.

After half the bottle Hawke paused. Anders groaned his disapproval but Hawke stoppered the bottle firmly. 'Now, now – death is no excuse for a party.' Anders groaned again, but accepted his point. They seemed in no immediate danger; they had to be sensible.

As the connection returned he automatically set it to fixing his body, slim waves of magic brushed out the worst of the poison. But he knew it would take much more time and energy to rid its effects entirely. His sight restored, he studied the shadowed face above him. He looked like Hawke, it sounded like Hawke. Its hands were cold and indifferent, but that was Hawke lately. _It means little_, he told himself. 'What happened Are you hurt?'

'I've got no passengers, if that's what you're asking.'

It was no use pretending otherwise. Anders tried an apologetic shrug. His spine screamed in response.

Hawke took his head between both hands and for an instant Anders thought the abomination was ready to snap his neck. Instead, Hawke gently tilted his gaze to the twisted husk sprawled on the floor.

'The thing about a handshake is, you have to let the shaker get very close.'

There was a sharp click as a slim blade sprang from his left cuff. Varric had had them designed after observing Hawke's tendency to charge headlong into danger. _'If you will insist on leaving your __brain behind, these can do some of the thinking for you.' _Anders could have kissed the dwarf.

'Thank the Maker.'

'Thank Varric.'

Anders became aware of Hawke's restless shifting beneath him. He stayed where he was. 'So you were never going to -'

'I've been owed money by Isabela. You think that pitch was going to work on me? I honestly don't know how so many people fall far it; selling themselves for the promise of a new carpet.'

'If people are desperate, they have much more to argue with. And people _are _desperate. The plight of mages gives demons much more to prey upon.'

Hawke stopped waiting for him to move and thrust himself free of Anders' weight. When he spoke his tone was hard. It was clear that path of conversation was cut off.

'I'm desperate for some healing.' he said, 'So could you see your way to getting yourself fixed?'

Despite protesting bones Anders scrambled to his knees. 'You're wounded?'

'Just scrapes. I sorted the worst of it myself.'

'Oh Maker.' Anders set to inspecting him. Who knew what damage Hawke could do to himself. For his part, Hawke sat through the examination sulkily, like a young child promised pastry if he lets the healer remove a bad tooth. Surprisingly, Hawke had managed to keep himself in fairly good shape. There were a fair few burns and gashes, painful but not life threatening. One of the few benefits of fighting with magic.

The worst of it was the jagged wound in his side. At first, Anders couldn't see the damage for the blood but further frenzied inspection revealed that most of it was old or thick and sluggish. Somehow Hawke had managed to stitch the damage himself almost competently. It was an emergency patch-up, but impressive nonetheless.

His expression must have been plain. 'Not bad, eh, Nurse?

'I'll need to neaten it up. You could pull it loose again.'

'You're never satisfied.' Hawke shook his head but let himself be laid on his side.

Anders felt for torn edges, cleaned out filth and bad humours, and stimulated the stitching as much as he could manage. It was not much.

Hit with fresh exhaustion he gripped the floor. 'I'm sorry. That's all I have.' He panted. 'Don't move! I'm going to patch you up with bandages until I've got more energy.'

Ignoring him, Hawke eased himself upright. As he grasped for their dumped bags Anders was pleased to see that the stubborn man winced.

As Anders set to bandaging his torso, Hawke studied the green glimmer of the Veil. If anyone could poke and prod with their eyes it was him.

'It doesn't do anything.' he warned.

'Except encouraging demons to take up residence.'

'That's not something I realised we were in the market for.'

'Not as a preference, no. But maybe it could be more useful than that.'

'It's a weakness in the veil, Hawke. It is only useful to the things on the other side.' He bristled with self-disgust. 'And sometimes not even then.' Hawke still looked doubtful. 'I've seen these before. When I was Warden-ing. It's not a solution to – well, to whatever you're thinking.'

Hawke couldn't hide his disappointment. The frown squirmed on his face like a boy at prayers. It was time to ask. Again. 'What _are _you thinking, Hawke?'

'I think there may be more to see down here. And don't complain; if we leave now empty handed you'd have to blame yourself.'

'I'm very happy blaming you for whatever happens.'

'Well, unless you feel like winding your sorry self back up all that way alone I suggest you get your energy back while I have a quick poke around.'

Anders didn't have the strength to care, let alone to form an argument, so he let Hawke prop him against the altar, change his mind and prop him against a pack wedged against the altar, move away, turn back and feel Anders' head, feel his own head then feel Anders' again, then finally stalk off to the ornate door set in the wall, all without comment. But he watched him closely, careful for any sign of [possession].

Hawke walked to the door with difficulty, favouring his right side. The door was wide and thick and dark with age, curving patterns etched into the wood like interlocking thorns. Or teeth. Hawke leant again the frame and shoved the body of it with his shoulder. There wasn't even a rattle. He positioned his palms against the door and released a burst of force magic. Nothing happened. He circled, rubbing the back of his head, before attacking it again. He gave it a swift kick, followed by a firm one that made him cry out in pain. He shoved at the pins in the door, but the hinges stuck firm. He stopped. He pulled his beard in thought. With a gentle grip he tried the dark stiff handle, which moved with only a little squeak of protest.

It was definitely just Hawke.

The door swung inwards, exposing a large stone facade. Someone had gone to great trouble to brick the gap right to the edges. Hawke moaned and bashed his head against the grey stone. He let out another burst of magic. There was a minute sifting in the stone, but most was deflected to roll harmlessly up the walls. He gripped below the wound in his side and his breath came in heavy wheezes.

'Hawke - '

'That's not it.' He said, and brought a faint flame to his hand to duck behind the opposite pillars. It was only moments between him entering the first alcove and storming back into the hall.

'Nothing?'

'Nothing good.'

Anders remembered the bone pits and saw the foul, twisted corpses withered where they fell, the smooth old stones slick with ichor. 'No. I wouldn't think so.' It was probably a very bad idea to be sitting here, despite the weariness in his bones. 'I'm going to move out of this room.'

'You do that.' Hawke's voice was buried in his footsteps. Anders tried to push himself up, but he couldn't make the connection between the thought of the action and stirring his heavy arms. He let his head flop back and studied the high vaulted ceilings that trapped whispering darkness in every corner. This time the whispers were not sinister, but sweet caresses to wrap him in the dark. It would be very nice to rest.

Hawke stormed out of the final passage, his limping footsteps battering the peace. He clung to the blocked doorway, fingers bent with desperation. 'There must be something behind here.' He forced another unsuccessful blast at the door, then another, and another. Each was weaker than the one before as his remaining energy dwindled until he was just jabbing with his fingers.

Anders didn't sleep any more, not properly anyway. Trips to the Fade had Justice as his caretaker, and Anders lived and toiled in the world until he could no longer hold off handing over. But sometimes instead of dreams he repeated memories, portioning quiet parts of the night to himself, sifting through old victories and gentle comforts. As he lay happy and comfy in the dark, the scrape of nails played over and over in his head. If this was a memory, he couldn't place it. He didn't hurt now. The darkness buoyed him, kept him soothed and gentle above the pain, and the scratching tailed off, tidied into gentle snoring that lapped at his ears and told of deep cushions and sated bellies and strong warm limbs wrapped around his.

Perhaps there was a better memory...


	9. Mages 6

The air in the Hanged Man was less air and more whatever happens to beer once its been through a man's body, often several times over. You could bottle it. In fact, Anders wasn't entirely sure that wasn't the main component of the 'Landlord Special'.

Isabela leaned in and gave him a heavy-lidded smile. 'Something on your mind, droopy?'

His reply stopped in his head; his jaw was stiff. He managed to shake his head, with more effort than seemed necessary.

'Why is it that nothing seems to interest people so very much? Do share.'

'You would be very disappointed.' He'd said it wrong. Hearing himself, he sounded stern.

'Don't believe a word of it. He's very … appointing.' Hawke settled onto the bench between them. 'What? Weren't you talking about sex?'

'We are now.' Isabela smiled as Hawke began regaling her with sordid gossip regarding the upper echelons and their unusual proclivities.

Anders wasn't listening. Work at the clinic meant he could contribute more than enough to the conversation but today he didn't feel like sharing, not even with names removed. The triviality of their concerns grated; Isabela, Hawke, all these ignorant humans feasting themselves on waste and idleness. The buzz of the tavern spun round his ears, but he couldn't distinguish any words. Was he drunk? It couldn't be that; drinking clouded the judgement and dimmed purpose. It made the walls stretch away in green, glassy planes.

Isabela slurped her dirnk noisily as Hawke enacted a particularly vulgar motion. The candle in front of him sputtered; the wax almost burned to the base. What time was it? Anders didn't remember the sky when they arrived. Now that he thought about it, he couldn't even remember arriving. The candle flickered again, its long stem in full bloom.

Wait -

'Hawke!' Isabela snapped. 'Your man is without a drink. How do you expect to get any if he's not pliant?'

His drink. Was it full before? He wanted to look, but couldn't persuade his body to do it. It was as though someone else was operating his body. He focused on the sensation of the glass in his hand, tried to inspect it, throw it, but the feeling was dulled and his arm unresponsive.

Panic rose like bile in his throat. 'Wait!' The command was barked before he'd even thought it.

'It's fine.' Hawke rose. 'I like the idea of you pliant.'

Isabela's hand whipped across the table and fixed itself across his lips. Her smile was playful but the grip was harsh. 'There, young one.' Her voice was a hiss of velvet. 'The Champion won't be denied.'

The moment Hawke stepped away from their table she narrowed her eyes. Their whites darkened to a deep purple. Now his arm was raising, he could feel his muscles readying to thrust his fist into her body.

She smiled and put a finger to her lips. 'Shhh.'

With more force that he thought possible she shoved him back. He flew across the tavern, landing hard against the wall. Winded, he opened his eyes to see he'd gone straight through. He picked himself up, momentarily glad for his unusually distant body cushioning him from the pain. No-one in the place had noticed his improbable journey, but they would notice his response. He thought to use magic, but instead his arms pulled back to swing. Strength felt like instinct. He barrelled forward and a barrier knocked him flat.

Shocked, he pushed forward, to find his way barred by an invisible wall. Shouting threats he hadn't conjured, he kicked and pounded his fists at the solid air. Nobody acknowledged him, save for the Isabela-shape, who blew him a kiss. He could hear the noise in the tavern just fine; picking out her syrupy tones as Hawke returned from the bar. She thanked him for the glass as he sat, momentarily confused.

Hawke wore a frown, as though he had forgotten something important, but it dissolved as Isabela directed the conversation again.

'So, sweet thing, I brought you here for a proposition.'

'If I remember correctly, the last time I accepted one of your propositions, the bruises lasted for weeks.'

The Isabela-thing laughed, a scraping, scratching sound, and Anders thumped the air.

'It's not real! For the love of everything, don't trust her!' He tried to shout, but didn't hear the words come out. He pounded again; his fists tight rocks cracking with fissures.

'Only good bruises last. Think of them as a signature.'

The familiar green taint stained everything in the bar, but even without it Anders could see the seams of the illusion. The patrons were stuck in a cycle of repeated actions; there were no signs of life, no sound or movement behind the closed doors off the main bar; the bar itself had no stock except for the bottles staged on its top. It was all so obvious.

He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be in the Fade. This was Justice's realm and he was usually happy just to let him stand a steady, dull watch until sunrise. Or earlier. This time they'd both been caught off guard, their exchange caught up in trickery. The thought stirred a very tangible anger and Anders was overwhelmed by it. He had to remember that here he was the passenger.

'What's this proposition, then?' Hawke was light, and teasing as he leaned into the false Isabela. 'And is it likely to involve me getting maimed, mangled or otherwise attacked by unscrupulous characters?'

'Only if you want it to.'

Hawke laughed. 'You know me. A day's not complete without a sword pointed at a favourite part of my anatomy.'

'Then come with me, Hawke. You, me, a ship -' she put a possessive hand on his arm, 'the sea, adventure, wenches of all varieties...'

'You're forgetting something quite important.' Hawke dragged his finger through a pool of thick liquor. He gave a light tap and the streak took hold fiercely with a blue-tinged flame. 'Most people don't like my party tricks.'

Isabela smirked and snuffed it out with the slam of an arm. She leaned forward conspiratorially. 'The magic doesn't matter; I've heard of a place where there isn't any trouble. North of Rivain, where the Chantry's gold doesn't reach.'

She didn't have Hawke's full attention. He was sniffing his fingers and studying the table quizzically. Anders could have laughed with delight. _Yes. _He tried to push the encouragement through the world, out through his remote body, _Nothing in this place is that pure_.

She lay a hand on his arm. 'Hawke? Isn't that what you want? Get away from all this … nonsense.'

He looked at her intently. 'What's the trick, Isabela?'

She placed both hands on the table, palms open. 'I need a cabin boy to scrub my - '

Hawke flicked his hand into her cuff and pulled one of her hidden aces. 'Cards on the table, Isabela. What's going on?'

She grinned, then caught Hawke's expression and pouted at the table. Eventually she shrugged and the cocky confidence slipped away, as though she'd shed a skin. She fixed Hawke with a deep, earnest stare and said, 'Oh shit.' She scratched the back of her head. 'You did something very nice for me. Why can't you stop being a big dumb hero and let someone help you for once?'

It was hard not to be impressed, even as Anders felt his arms hammering fruitlessly at the barrier. The Isabela's eyes creased by years of laughter at their corners, but their deep brown shimmered with embarrassed regret. It was an excellent portrait.

Hawke relaxed and kicked his feet up on the bench. 'Cabin boy, eh?' He fingered the rim of his glass. 'So would I spend more of my time above or below deck?'

She slipped an arm around his neck. 'Above deck. Can't you just picture it? Fresh air, freedom and space to run. Isn't that what you want?' Dark fingers slipped within his collar.

Hawke turned his mouth to her ear. Despite his low whisper, Anders could hear him clearly. He was being taunted. 'And my responsibilities? Polishing the deck and shinning the mast?'

'Whatever you like, sweet thing.'

Glasses jumped as Hawke grabbed her neck and slammed her head to the table. The partrons jumped in unison. Their shock was mirrored in the face of the Isabela-demon.

'Hawke!'

'You're not Isabela. Isabela would never let those awful jokes pass her by.'

The crowd was staring and motionless; puppets directed by one hand. Hawke kept his grip tight on the back of her neck and growled. 'So what's the trick?'

'Very well.' Long nails shot from nowhere and scraped across his face. The surprise gave her the chance to worm from his grip and dance away, no trace of blood where her face had been smashed into the wood.

They faced each other over the table, their backs rigid and bristling like warring Mabari. 'I've been through this before,' Hawke scoffed, 'why don't you guys use a little imagination? Offer me a golden pony, a pair of self-buckling trousers.' As he spoke, Hawke's worked at his cuffs. He was searching for his weapons, but Anders knew he would find none. Not here.

Anders shouted in impotent horror as Justice piloted his body out into the darkness behind him. _You can't leave him! Don't leave him! _When the response came it travelled through the air and in his head in unison. 'I am attempting to find a way.'

Hawke was still talking, inching sideways as he gestured about. 'Instead, you give me this place. I mean, I didn't even like it much when it was my home.' His hand was at the neck of a bottle. He gripped it tight and smashed the end away. Immediately, he was swamped by the patrons, their faces eerily blank even as they gripped his arms behind his back.

Justice pushed on into the dark, but despite his determined steps they got nowhere. There was nowhere to go to; they ran into nothingness and dragged the awful scene with them. He turned and watched helplessly as Hawke was wrestled by the vacant mass at the mercy of the demon.

_Justice! Why can't you do something? _He sent the thought as loud as he could, even as he knew the answer. The response fell fully formed in his head, more ideas than words. This was her place, and made for Hawke. Which meant it wasn't their fight. The knowledge solidified into doubt and despair; Hawke would lose alone. Anders fought against his own pessimism. Hawke was still struggling – Anders focused on that. On the set of his jaw, the clenched teeth and the arrogant brow. He would beat it. Anders channelled all his belief – all his foolish and petty admiration – into hope, because this was _Hawke_.

The Isabela smoothed her hair. Wisps of it were curling into horns that beckoned coyly from the sides of her head. 'They will not hurt you.' She purred. Hawke took this as an invitation to kick the closest one viciously in the leg. The demon flinched as it cried out and fell to the floor. Immediately, another took its place.

'They will not hurt you.' She repeated. 'But they want you to listen.'

She prowled around the tables. 'It is much more interesting this way. You have bested my trick; I cannot fool you. If we are to end this well, I must give you a genuine offer. One of real value.'

She raised a hand, and everything changed. The bar shifted – its sticky frame retreated behind a long table and a throng of people. The high ceilings descended, their drapes replaced by beams upon which were speared many scraps of paper. They bore pronouncements displaying a range of content and competence; if Anders squinted he could just make out 'Ifan Jones owes me 8 silvers and not a penny less', and several unpleasant scribbles about a Frederic Broun.

The mob had disappeared from Hawke. The patrons here seemed to have no interest in him. Released, Hawke thrust himself forward, colliding with a chair that had not been there a moment ago. The demon tutted as he pulled himself to his feet. Chastened, he took in his new surroundings. The air heaved with shouts and laughter, and the occasional peep of a lute as it strained to be heard through the din.

'Yet another bar? I dread to think the impression I must give.'

'Not _another _bar. A _new _bar.' The demon was still Isabela, but her brow was noticably sharper and her eyes were dark. She seemed to glide rather than walk across the room. 'A whole new place to tame. To own.'

She moved gently among the the people. They were too busy drinking, loving or fighting to notice her presence. She gestured to a lone figure in a shadowy corner. It was a young woman, head bent so that her hair mostly obscured her face. She was sobbing quietly, twisting a piece of fabric between her fingers. A handkerchief? A scrap of clothing? It was hard to tell.

'I wonder what she needs? And I wonder if anyone here is ever likely to ask?'

Hawke scroffed and stalked closer to the demon, but Anders saw the glimmer of interest that he failed to hide. Dodging Hawke's progress, the demon ducked behind a card-strewn table. She placed her hands on the shoulder of the most successful player. His smile was crooked and confident as he stroked his cards with long fingers. She let him notice her and accepted a wink from unusually green eyes. He was handsome, if handsome hadn't shaved for days and then rolled through a brewery.

'What makes him so good at this game? Is he good? Does he cheat?' She peered into his hand and raised an eyebrow. 'And what does he spend all those winnings on? It certainly is not clothes.' She flicked the frayed edge of a greying collar.

Green-eyes gave a deep, triumphant laugh as he displayed another winning hand. His frustrated opponent stood to complain, only to find himself toppled as the handsome player landed a swift kick to his chair under the table. The fallen man swore and spat as the table stuttered into full blow laughter. Hawke had stopped to watch and his eyes widened to see the cursing man rise with an outstretched dagger. Green-eyes threw his hands up in shock, attempts at sweet talk tailing off as muscles bunched and the dagger cut the air.

A chair exploded as the would-be assailant was thrown to the floor by the full force of Hawke.

Metal skittering across the floor was the only sound in the room. In a flash the demon swooped and picked up the knife. Everyone else was still, frozen in their stages of shock, anger, or in one particular case, green-eyed relief.

Hawke shoved himself to his feet, chest heaving. His eyes were wild, and more alive than they'd appeared in a long time. The demon twirled the knife curiously before tossing it away. 'Don't you just hate a bully?' she asked. Hawke was still panting, skin twitching. He was glowing, lit from the inside by something Anders couldn't understand but recognised enough to fear.

The demon's voice was honey. 'The war has not reached here, but there is always trouble.' She said the word with reverence, as though laying out a prize offering. 'Think of all the things you could change here. Think of all the things you could do.'

Gone was the fury and the fight. Hawke's expression was desperate; the picture of a man lost. 'I'm too old for this.' He managed.

'Oh, but that's the best part.' She sayshayed towards him and took his hand. He hesitated, but did not resist as she pulled him across the room.

They were coming toward him; she must have a plan for them, too. Anders thrilled. Whatever bargain she offered, Hawke would never sacrifice a friend.

_No matter what they've done? _That voice was not Justice; that shame was all his. Gripped with new fear he screamed to be heard. His voice forced its way through his hijacked jaw. 'Hawke! Don't listen to her. You know what she is!'

Hawke's eyes boggled in surprise and he stepped closer to Ander's prison. He grew closer and larger than seemed possible. Anders could only see him from the chest up. But that was all he needed to see. Hawke himself was changed. Gone were the creases and lines, the early specks of grey at his temple. Hawke was tracing his face in wonder. 'What does the glass show you?' The demon spoke and Anders finally realised where he was trapped. Of course a looking glass would be the thing to finally come between them.

'Vanity.' Justice's voice was heavy with condemnation.

The demon continued: 'A young man. The world his for the taking. Wouldn't you like to take it properly this time? Grab it by the scruff of the neck and see what you can make of it?'

Hawke was breathless, eyes gleaming with adventures not yet taken and loves not yet pursued. He ran his fingers over full and youthful cheeks.

'You shallow, self-absorbed fool.' Justice and Anders were united as they pounded the glass. The staring face did not flinch as blows rained down upon it a hair's breadth away.

'And what do you get out of this arrangement?' his voice was hoarse. 'A warm, fuzzy feeling?'

The demon laughed. 'I get time.' Its eyes were now fully black and they lingered on Hawke like a tender piece of meat. 'You don't get something for nothing. We take time from one end – from your miserable dotage – and you reclaim it as youth. As a new beginning! The process is...' she inhaled deeply, 'exhilarating.'

There was silence. Hawke splayed his hands and leaned against the wall. He stole a glance at his own arms; full, muscular, with none of the waste of a life on the run.

_Preening son of a bitch. _Anders wrenched control of their hand, ramming it onto the glass and sending electricity rippling across its surface. It hissed and spat back at him but made no difference to the man on the outside.

'I have a duty.'

'Your mission?' she scoffed. 'Your mission will fail. They will not let you achieve it. You _know _this.'

'I don't believe you can do it.'

'You know better than others the potential of the Fade. How little you truly know of our worlds. If we work together … what could be achieved?'

Hawke was gasping now, the corner of his jaw twitching. He closed his eyes and wrenched himself from the glass. He had decided.

Anders saw with glee the panic in the demon's eyes. 'There is one further offer. For your defeat of me, I offer you a wish. I would not send you alone. You may take one with you.' The demon's voice had changed; it was lighter, younger. A girl's voice.

Hawke turned, and gasped at the sight of a young woman with pale skin and soft eyes. She had the same mouth as Hawke. The demon smiled as he reached out to touch her dark hair.

'To start again. To do it right this time.' The demon changed again; dark hair became grey. Hawke snatched his hand back as he stared into the face of Leandra.

'I could watch my son grow.' she smiled. Anders shivered to remember the last time he'd seen that smiling face, eyes white with some unspeakable corruption. He could not see Hawke's face, but his shoulders were tight. Anders remembered the days spent under the silent weight of despair and blame, that swallowed her loss and lingered still around the memories of his mother and sister. How could he resist?

The demon shifted again. 'Or perhaps the one who never got to see his son become a man.' That deep voice – Anders remembered it cutting through the infernal whisperings in the depths of the Vimmarks. Malcolm Hawke had Carver's jaw; it jutted proudly even beneath the thick trimmed beard. The top of his face was all Garrett, the thick brow, the slim, haughty eyes, irises as dark as the pupils.

Hawke himself seemed struck by the resemblance. He reached out to touch the too-familiar face, palms to cheek. A coil of frustration bunched in Anders' throat and he felt Justice's muscles tighten in tandem. It was awful to recognise helplessness in his friend. Together, they pushed their body fully against the glass. Perhaps, if they tried hard enough, they could fall right through. Or fall out of this nightmare completely.

They stared helplessly at Hawke's back as the man slowly caressed the monster's face. He stood transfixed, watching Malcolm's foul smile as his hands moved slowly across his temples. Hawke paused, then twisted its head with a violent wrench. The monster screeched as it fell to the floor. Its illusion was shattered and its purple neck laid slack and misshapen.

'My mother was brought back once.' The desire demon squirmed feebly as Hawke raced fire across its chest. 'She didn't like it.'

The thing howled and the frozen patrons descended on Hawke at once. They had been still and silent but they were inescapably vocal now – each squeal from the demon setting off an unholy chorus of screams.

They set on Hawke with clawed fists, acting in unison but as a messy swarm rather than a coordinated unit. Hawke used this to his advantage, waiting until they clustered to slam them to the ground, or send scorching blasts through their ranks. Each fell easily – the danger was their number which Hawke quickly whittled down. The demon herself posed little threat, her energy was expended sustaining the mob and as each sputtered and fell she let out a fresh howl. By the time the final one fell, her cries were mere whimpers. She barely had the energy to plead as Hawke slammed his boot into her skull. Once, twice. A sickening crack and it was over.

Anders slumped with relief, and found himself supported by the same barrier as before. The bar, the shimmering green walls, he and Hawke, they were still here. How?

'We must be freed!' His voice rumbled with authority, but it went unanswered.

Hawke seemed troubled, too. He sank to a bench and held his head between his knees. Even now he couldn't hear Justice's shouts. _Or doesn't care to, _the traitorous voice whispered. He swallowed the guilt, a weak, unhelpful emotion.

The stillness dragged forever before Hawke shoved himself upright. He stalked towards the glass, eyes filled with purpose. Justice placed their head against the glass and Anders coiled all his need and desperation into an arrow to send out into the world. _Feel me. Please feel me._

Hawke studied his youthful face before closing his eyes with a sigh. That twist of his mouth – what did that mean? Normally he would know, but through Justice's eyes it was hard to make sense of it. What was wrong now?

Hawke snapped to and scowled at his reflection. Without warning he thrust his fist in the looking glass. Shards flew and the illusion shattered. As the world around them crumbled, Hawke's hand drove through the dissolving barrier.

His fist connected with full force to Anders' face.


	10. Grey Wardens 2

So the Commander thought not-entirely-lethal darkspawn were interesting? Well, after another day of trudging past ripped corpses and gutted caravans, Carver decided that he could care less why the darkspawn were leaving some people alive and instead they should just be glad that they occasionally did.

Their trail was obvious, carved through the bleak landscape in the pitted brown of blood and fire. The Commander didn't seem to think they should make any effort to predict it, or move to help or warn survivors, they just followed the echo of horror. She seemed morbidly pleased whenever they found the next corpse to keep them on the right track. Camp was signalled near a scorched trader party, so they'd be ready to pick up the scent of death in the morning.

Carver put his back to the crippled hulk of a caravan and set to pitching the tents. He imagined each peg was a twisted darkspawn head and the wood shook and splintered as he hammered them. His furious swings felt honest – enough power applied to the right place and it was done. It was clean. Direct. Useful.

'We do need to take those tents with us again, you know.' Bardolf peered over an armful of timber at the pegs. The last two wooden heads were barely visible above the sod. Carver nudged them noncommittally with his toe. Sure enough dwarf lost interest and tossed his load to the floor.

'I brought you stuff for a fire.' he said. Of course he didn't say _please_ or _if you'd be so good_ or even _thanks Carver for sweating over the tent that'll stop my hairy arse getting soaked tonight_.

'You want me to polish your boots, too?'

The dwarf squinted at him. 'You fancy laying traps instead?' He jangled something metal and terrible at his belt. The trap was teeth on shards on mounted points and, if that wasn't enough, Carver was sure he could see the spark of a mechanism lurking in the jaws. It was the kind of thing that featured in his more elaborate nightmares. He automatically covered his groin.

'No thanks. I like all my fingers.' He eyed the dwarf's left hand. There was a conspicuous absence after the knuckle on his two smallest fingers. The story of how he lost it changed every time he was asked, but the fact remained Bardolf had a mother's instinct with chemicals and traps and even he'd had them turn around and bite him.

'I like mine, too.' Bardolf agreed. 'But these two are my favourites.' He flashed Carver an obscene gesture with the rest of his scarred hand and sauntered off to create a perimeter. That was Grey Warden camaraderie for you: blunt, offensive and often missing limbs.

Carver kicked the wood he'd been brought. It had a sheen of damp – didn't everything in the Anderfels? - but it didn't seem too wet to work with. Black had eaten at the edges where someone had already tried to set it alight. The wood had panels that were planed and crafted, which was strange out here. He wondered where the dwarf had picked it up.

Unless...

Bardolf?' He shouted and the dwarf stopped. 'Tell me you didn't pick this from the -' Carver couldn't finish the sentence. He gestured behind him to the charred trade camp. He didn't want to look.

'Commander said not to waste it.' Bardolf shrugged and moved back to his traps.

So it was that easy, was it? Carver couldn't believe him. Either of them. But still he took the striker from his bag and knelt by the pile. He sifted through the panels, snapping them into a cone as he went, until he found the driest piece. Taking his knife he set to carving slivers for kindling, trying to place his body between the dry shavings and the endless drizzle. As he worked he noticed the chips in the wood; nicks from travelling, the edge of a carved design somebody would have been so proud of, a smooth area where someone's hand had trailed regularly in years of use.

A cart like it used to bring trinkets and foreign sweets to Lothering in the sunnier months. He'd get some coppers for a gingerbread if he'd been good when he was younger – and he was always good if there was a chance for gingerbread. But then he'd grown too old. The first year he'd said no was the hardest. He missed the tongue-gumminess of the sugar, and picking the dried fruit off and sticking it under the table when no-one was looking. But everyone said only babies liked them and Carver definitely wasn't the baby.

Then Garrett had gone and bought four with his own money and eaten the every one in front of him. Slowly. And of course the next day everyone was having them and _oh weren't they so wonderful_. But Carver refused to join in. He knew they were still for babies.

Bethany had brought him a cinnamon pastry instead and they shared it in the secret spot near the windmill and while he wouldn't say it out loud he'd thought maybe having a sister wasn't so terrible.

He snapped a new piece of wood and it brought back the snapping sails of the windmill. He and the other farm help used to bask in the sun on the rare hot days, and let the revolving arms slip cool shadows over their skin. On the best days they would have beers – tepid and bitter and the right kind of challenge to young tastebuds. Arms heavy from lugging bales, or feed, or idiot friends, they would lie out of sight of parents and little sisters and idiot brothers and he would feel full of the ache of a hard days' work and the knowledge that one day he would go somewhere better and be something better.

And that one day he'd go back a hero and everything – the arsehole bosses, the flirts and his borther's groupies, and all the eyes of the houses – would know what he'd done.

It was all burned now. Oh, the buildings would be back up, there'd be a new windmill and barn and a pub – the first thing anyone ever rebuilt was the pub. But Lothering – the real Lothering – would be ashes underneath it all.

Just like father.

It was stupid to think about it. He patted the smooth wood farewell and fell back on his heels. Slipping out a piece of char cloth – happy to find it was the one thing in the sodding place that was still dry – he used the striker to light it. Within seconds he had a flame. He dropped it in the wreckage and it jumped greedily to his slivers of kindling. Bright yellow licks grew and sputtered in the splinters against the rain. But the big slats wouldn't take hold. His flame withered and still the wood refused to light. He looked at the sore, blackened edges, where the darkspawn fire had tried to creep in.

It was clear it wasn't going to light and, sure enough, the flame flickered and failed. The wood had held strong against all of them. He felt very proud of it. While knew the Commander would be irritated if it wasn't done he couldn't bring himself to lift the striker from his pocket. He held it tight in his palm and stared at the stubborn, damp wood.

A wink of flame appeared in the heart of it. It shivered and swelled to a bright sphere that gobbled at the slants of his pyre until every slat was gripped in the hiss of smoky flame.

Riona lowered her hand, looking altogether too pleased with herself. She did that too often; appeared out of nowhere to interrupt a latest adventure in failure.

'You're welcome.' She said. He hated when people did that. No-one was ever owed thanks. Especially not for swanning in and waving a hand.

'You could've done that in the first place.' He said.

'You didn't ask me.' She smiled. 'Besides, I like watching you do it.'

Didn't they all? Like to watch normal people muddle on in their normal way, then swooping in at the last minute to show off how easy it was with magic. They forgot that some people were only a Templar motion away from taking it all away and then who'd be useless? He stretched himself out and nudged the Fade. He felt like giving it a tug, just as a reminder of what he could do. But it was cold. And he didn't fancy explaining to the Commander why they had no fire and a neutered, angry mage.

He settled for scorn. It wasn't nearly as satisfying but it kept his arse intact. 'Is that how you get your kicks?'

'I get them where I can.' She replied breezily.'You should try it. It might loosen whatever it is that's blocking your bowels.'

'My bowels are just fine, thanks.'

Oh. Bugger. Not his finest comeback. He could feel his treacherous ears heating. It was time to change the subject; as far from bowels as possible. 'I've just got a bit of respect for where we are. Have you ever lost everything you've ever known?'

'Yes. The Nessum Circle was my home.'

Oh she had to have a good answer, didn't she? It was just typical. Couldn't any Grey Wardens skip the traumatic backstory, write letters home to to a trauma-free family, and get packets of socks and sweets? (Maker, did he need new socks.) And of course Riona had to come from the bloodiest wreckage of the mage crisis. Everyone had heard how the blood mages rebelled and ripped the place apart to the surprise of absolutely no-one except the people whose job it was to guard them. They said it was so bad you had to swim through the blood – which to be fair to the blood mages, they didn't seem shy about advertising. The Commander, who coated herself in mystery like proper women used perfume, refused to say anything about it. Even Bardolf had only said he had picked her up sometime after the whole place crumbled. So Maker knew what _that _meant.

Well, sure, she was homeless, too, but then escaping a Circle was hardly the same, was it? Especially not if there were scars under those long sleeves. 'At least you could stay in Orlais. The Blight chases people right out of their countries.'

He waited for the comment about how that was Ferelden's fortune, but instead she shrugged and said 'I'm not Orlesian.'

'You're from Nessum.'

'Nessum is contested. Orlais and Neverra always fighting over it. Until the rebellion, I suppose. Now they fight to say they have nothing to do with these horrible mages.'

Orlais didn't want to swoop in and claim land? That sounded like some betrayal of Orlesian code, like being caught without the right amount of frills on your shoes. She caught his expression. 'I know what you're thinking – but would _you _want a Circle revolt in your borders? The Divine would wet her knickers.'

He couldn't argue with that. 'Well, you sound Orlesian.' He hadn't meant it as an insult, but he'd take points where he could get them. She barely flinched. It was infuriating: it was as if nothing he said mattered to her.

'To a proper Orlesian I sound like a clogged drain.'

'The Commander said that?'

'No, not the Commander. As long as you know 'yes ma'am' I don't think she gives a damn if you're high Orlesian or a gravel-spitting Marcher. No offence.' She said, in the way that definitely meant offence.

'None taken. I'm Fereldan.'

'Oh! Then I'm surprised you can listen to me at all without driving your sword through me in a patriotic fury.'

'I'm astonished, myself.' he muttered.

Her smile withered. She snapped up and started busying herself in their bags, tearing out the stiff bread and readying the water. He could barely hear her goading him over the clanging of the cans. 'Such restraint. We should give you a medal.'

He wouldn't rise to it this time. As she clattered she described how big his medal would be – ginormous, and in the shape of a head – and how lofty and grand (she used a lot of words ending in -escent that he was sure she was making up). But he wouldn't care. He didn't want to be this person – this kid – who got annoyed and cross and couldn't let things be, He hadn't been this person for long enough and he didn't like the feel of him back in his skin. There was something about her that brought it out, that makes him feel like an oafish child who needed anger to prove something. Well, he wouldn't do it. Not even when she began listing his titles, which in a thousand years you'd never fit on a single medal. _Dog Lord –_ like he'd never heard that before. Even if she could get creative with the swear words it was nothing that would surprise an army man. He just wouldn't rise to it.

'Most High Crybaby and wielder of the grouchy sceptre -'

'Look! You don't get it. Being serious is _normal._ We're not on a picnic.'

'We're not?' It was hard for her to find the right sarcastic tone through a tough mouthful.

'No. We're - ' and this was where he was stumped. What the hell were they doing? Why should anyone be serious about a pointless mission? Maybe being a lunatic witch was entirely reasonable. He dropped his head to his hands and rubbed his eyes until the sparks began to bloom. 'We're looking for answers, apparently. What answers can we possibly find out here?'

'How green a corpse goes?'

'That's not funny.' Corpses flashed into his head. Gaping jaws, terrified eyes and maggots writhing meatily. Ordinary people turned to food.

She at least looked ashamed. 'No. Maybe not.' she said, quietly. 'But you have to try to lighten things somehow. Or else you'd be...' she struggled for the word and ended up just waving at him. Great. So being him was the 'or else'. He was always the 'or else.'

He huffed and she leaned in to him. 'What else can we do?'

Carver didn't need her pity. He stood and barked down at her. 'We can stop following and chase ahead. Or go to the Deep Roads and stop them before they get here. We could do anything except waiting and watching and going _oh isn't it so interesting?_' She looked a little alarmed, but maybe it was about time she understood what it meant to be out here. That this wasn't a jolly outing like one of Garrett's adventures. 'We're Grey Wardens – or at least I am – and that means protecting people and leading the charge and -'

Now she was blinking at him oddly. 'Are you even listening? Do you even care...' Oh. Now he understood. 'Is the Commander behind me?'

'Yes.' The voice that answered was stern and far too close to his ear. For a woman carved from rock she could slip about like the wind.

'You could have warned me.' He muttered.

'There wasn't a good moment. You were quite intense.'

'Whenever you are finished.' The Commander's voice was quiet, but irresistible, like hunger or a knife to the groin. 'I came thinking to rescue children in danger of being gobbled by darkspawn. Instead I find two of my squad engaged in a screeching contest. Would you care to share your problem, Carver?'

It's nothing, Commander.' He stood as straight and as far away from the Commander as one motion would allow. There was nothing he could do about his bright red ears and angry hair.

Riona jumped in. 'Carver's just got a huge stick up his -'

'Your problem, _petit_, is that you allow your mouth to collect every idle thought. Whereas Carver, I am surprised a man so keen to share his thoughts with every living creature within twenty miles now doesn't have anything to say.'

He remained at attention. The Commander had always been informal – impatient, but informal – but he'd been suckered by that attitude before. Superiors who liked to chum around with the men, relaxing their mouths and the rules, until something dropped that they didn't like and authority slammed back down like a cudgel.

'I'd like to hear it, Carver. At a reasonable volume. I think you were at "leading the charge"...'

Bardolf was grinning behind the Commander. He nodded and mouthed 'go for it'. Carver swallowed. 'Commander, I don't understand. We have been chasing down the same group of darkspawn for weeks. We shouldn't just be tracing their steps when we could be moving ahead. Why aren't we trying to stop them?'

'Because that is not our mission.'

As if he hadn't had enough of the cryptic bullshit. 'It's the mission of the Grey Wardens. Commander - are we being punished?'

She might think he didn't know but rumours spread like the taint. Even if she was as warm and exciting in the flesh as a wardrobe he still tingled a little at the presence of the famous Leonie Caron, Commander of the Grey, but everyone knew she'd pissed off the highest of the highest. That kind of thing poisoned by association. And if she hadn't done something terrible, or at least terribly stupid, there was no way the she'd be dragging around a tiny knot of not-quite Grey Wardens so far from the Deep Roads.

'We are not searching for darkspawn, we are searching for answers.' She snapped a hand. 'Take a seat.'

Bardolf elbowed in with Riona and pulled himself a mug and handful of bread. The Commander rolled the flap of a pack open to give her a dry place to sit. It was Carver's pack, which left him crunched on his haunches.

The Commander rested her shield against her knees and addressed them all. 'I told you: it is a puzzle. We are far from the Deep Roads. There is no Blight. Yet there are darkspawn attacking villages, people, taking paths above ground. Why do they take these routes? Why do they move on, when more people remain to kill, more communities to massacre? They act with purpose.'

Riona chipped in. 'The darkspawn don't have purpose?'

'Wanton killing and destruction isn't really a purpose. It's more of a hobby.'

'That is enough, Bardolf. During a Blight, the darkspawn respond to an archdemon. It guides them to the surface, directs their movements in an attempt to conquer our lands.'

'Are we sure this isn't a Blight? Asked Riona. eyes big and shining in the dim light. Not for the first time Carver bristled that a non-Grey Warden should hear so much. The rest of them had earned their place and they had the terrible knowledge branded in their souls. Why did she get to sit at a campfire and listen to secrets like they were nothing, when if she wanted to she could just walk away.

'It's not a Blight. We Grey Wardens would know.' She looked cowed but he shouldn't have to feel bad for telling the truth. He turmed to the Commander. 'Do you think something is guiding them?'

'We fear there may be. It is not unknown for something else to influence darkspawn.'

She sounded grave, which was appropriate. Cold fingers of memory reach up for him, of plunging down deep rock throats and GWs stringy with taint and whispers. A half voice in the back of his head, calling. His brother's abomination snapping and his own nerves fraying from the infernal wheedling. 'Corypheus' The name tumbled from his lips, unbidden.

'Bless you.' Said Bardolf.

'No,' he explained. 'Corypheus was a – a thing. A demon, or a magister, or something. It had power through the taint. It influenced wardens, and other things, even though it was asleep. And then it woke up, talking about Dumat and the Old Gods.' Riona and Bardolf were looking at him in surprise. The Commander was waiting for him to finish. 'But we killed him.' he hurried. 'My brother and I; we killed him.'

'Wow.' Breathed Riona.

'Yeah boy.' Bardolf whistled. 'Though I can't help thinking you could have milked that story a little more. Maybe throw in a few more adjectives next time.'

It wasn't how he'd wanted to share it. He'd planned to bring it up when they were sharing war stories. He wouldn't brag, but just slip it casually and properly wow them all. Riona's eyes would shine with admiration. Bardolf would tease him and they'd have to settle it with a wrestle and some kicking but when it was finished he'd finally stop calling him boy.

But he'd caught the Commander's eye and she didn't look surprised. When did she? Of course she'd know. The Commander wasn't impressed by even the most outlandish tales. She respected facts. And getting to the point.

But if she appreciated him wasting his best story for her she didn't show it. She just said 'It is not the only story like it. I encountered a talking darkspawn in Amaranthine. He claimed to be enlightened. He aimed to give reason to the darkspawn. Who is to know how successful he was?'

Carver was impressed. Most of the Marcher wardens had heard about his encounter with Corypheus. And it wasn't just because he'd tried to spread it around; new things had legs of their own and scuttled about making themselves known wherever they could. And he'd heard rumours about similar stories, but not that the Commander was involved. And she was one of the most famous Wardens. The excitement at working with the Commander Caron pinched and he leaned in. 'How did you kill him?'

'He must have been very powerful.' Riona's voice was quiet.

'He was. But I let him live.' And that was it. Just blank statement; no trace of shame or defiance.

'Let it live?' His shout punctured the cool twilight quiet. He remembered Corypheus - the oily voice, the infernal whispering, the insistent pressure to save him and the unshakeable certainty that it had to die. 'Did you have an attack of insanity?'

The blank plane of Leonie's face buckled and she frowned with disapproval. It was a dangerous expression designed to remind him who was Warden Commander but he was remembering that she was the disgraced Warden Commander and he was starting to understand why. 'I mean: did you have an attack of insanity, Commander?' He said, clinging to defiance.

She did not shout, or thrust his face in the dirt, but he knew he would pay for that later. It was darkly silent for a moment before she sighed. 'War makes strange allies. And we have been at war with the darkspawn for a long time.' She laid a hand on her shield, meticulously clean, but dulled from years of use, and stared at the sky beyond his head. No-one made a sound.

'Nevertheless, there is concern. These patterns, this unusual behaviour, it could be the work of the Architect. It may be something else. But it is imperative that we unearth its meaning.

'This knowledge is closely guarded. I tell you now because it is becoming increasingly apparent to me that there is something happening here.' She fixed Carver with sincere dark eyes. 'This mission is vital; we must unearth whatever force is behind it. And while we find out, I suggested to my superiors that it could be useful to have an experienced enlightened darkspawn killer in our ranks. No matter who his brother might be.'

She argued for him? That was a surprise. He felt the squirmings of an apology in the swell of pride. 'So it's not just a punishment, then?' That was close enough.

She blinked slowly. 'Not _just _a punishment, no. Although I understand there are several latrine duties for you, should you prefer?'

'No Commander. I think I can be useful here.'

Thatis a development I will await with anticipation.'

'So, if this is so important, should we be doing something different?' Riona looked pale. He thought not treating everything like a cosmic joke might be a start. And maybe avoiding making everyone else feel stupid for taking things seriously.

'Your orders remain the same; listen for information, identify the trail, and eliminate darkspawn where we find them. Although perhaps a little more solemnity and less whining would serve us all well.'

'We're Grey Wardens, not So-Grey-We're-Irretrievably-Depressing Wardens, Commander.'

'I suppose it is positive to see you are unchanged by these revelations, Bardolf.'

'I aim to be your rock, Commander.'

Carver couldn't detect any movement in her flat face, but Bardolf saw something that made him smile widely and clap his hands. 'I'm going to scrounge myself some more dinner to take to my roll.' He announced, cheerily. If the dwarf got any more crumbs in their tent Carver was going to sweep them very carefully into his socks. Although that plan depended a little on the dwarf ever risking clean ones. 'Thank you for the lovely bedtime stories. I'm looking forward to a restful night of sleepwalking magisters and chatting darkspawn.'

'You can look forward to my knee in your back.' Carver promised, pushing his sore joints out of the mud. He would beat Bardolf into their tent. He wasn't going to get the bad side of the tent tonight.

The Commander stopped him with a solid hand. 'Perhaps later, Carver. For now you're taking watch.'

'What? We haven't needed a watch in weeks.' Between Riona's wards, Bardolf's traps and the Commander sleeping with her sword in unhealthy proximity there hadn't been much call for some idiot to lose half his sleep.

'I think, given the location, it is the only _sane _thing to do.'

Of course. His punishment for telling the truth. As he rescued his spare cloak and dry socks before Bardolf could fart all over them he reflected that at least it was immediate. He hated waiting in suspense. He remembered Captain Hillary at Ostagar. He wielded the suggestion of punishment like an exquisite torture device. The anticipation was so acute and painful it was with tearful relief that soldiers finally fell to hard labour.

As everyone ducked into their canvas he wrapped his cloak around him and crouched by the fire. The last birds of the day shrieked across an indigo stained sky. There weren't any clouds to keep the chill out, but still there was drizzle. It fought to a stalemate with the fire as he huddled closer - the heat steaming the water from his hair only to plonk it straight back onto his ears again in cold flecks.

He closed his eyes and let his blood do the scouting. There was nothing except the dim recognition of three Grey Wardens wriggling in tents.

The soft suck of footsteps on mud made that two Grey Wardens wriggling and one not-really-anything stepping out of her tent. Her solo tent, he added, bitterly. The Commander didn't have to share so neither did Riona. By virtue of breasts alone. If he has his own tent he wouldn't need to leave it in such a hurry in the stale, stinky morning. Although if he had breasts he'd probably never leave it at all.

Riona sat beside him. It might have been his imagination, but she was regarding him differently. She was smiling again, for one.

'I thought you might like some company.'

He'd been better without it. He wasn't good at this. Talking to girls was always Garrett's forte. It was something about not ever wanting more than talking made it easy for him to risk the talking. It was stupid that he couldn't talk to Riona, though. She was a fellow Grey Warden. An irritating Grey Warden.

But she wasn't that, was she? Not yet. And as she sat quietly with the firelight picking out her fingers as they knotted her wisping hair she was much less irritating, too.

She caught him looking and leapt into conversation. 'So it's true then? You're the Kirkwall Champion's brother?'

And they were right back to irritating. 'I like to think that he's _my _brother.'

'Wow.' she exhaled, fluffing her fringe with an impressed blast of air. 'To think I'm close to the Hero of the Revolution. Who liberated the first circle.'

'I was there.' he snapped. It wasn't very heroic. It was mostly panic and lunacy. And walking statues.'

'Walking statues?'

'It's not as good as it sounds. Imagine a huge bronze fist hurtling into your face. Repeatedly.'

She took her time imagining. It didn't dampen her excitement. She must have imagined it romantically; all dashing heroics and bravery instead of pain and pissing terror. Perhaps that wasn't so bad. He wanted to see it play in her head.

'You must be very worried about him.' she said, finally.

'No.' _Sorry mother_. He sent her a little prayer of apology, and hoped the fact that she could always see the lie of it somehow made it all right. That wasn't enough for Riona, though, who looked at him like he as morally absent as a Crow, or one of the slugs who looted battlefields.

He prickled with discomfort. 'My brother has luck, and I don't. So I'm sure he's fine.' Of course he was fine. Garrett was always fine. He _had_ to be fine.

The fire hissed like a crowd turning. The column of smoke twisted a grey banner against the black. [For a moment they were silent together in the dark vacuum of early night.

'But still, to have been there. Making history. Making the future for all mages.'

Mages. Mages. Hasn't it always been about mages. 'And ruining my own.'

'They couldn't have been that cross. The Grey Wardens. If they let you come with the Commander.'

'I should have been reporting for sortie to the Deep Roads and I stopped off to _tip the Chantry onto its head_ and turn my brother into a wanted criminal.'

'Anything sounds bad if you say it like that.'

'I put my sword through the ruler of a city. I'm surprised they didn't disown me, and let me become a Templar pincushion.'

'At least you were doing somethng with your days off.' She laughed hopefully, but he stayed silent.

She sighed, and patted a hand on his thigh. 'Well, you're with us now. So that's good.' Her palm was unusually hot through the close fabric of his trousers.

'Fantastic.' He didn't have the energy to be completely sarcastic. Something about her endless optimism was draining. And the hand on his thigh was distracting. And then it was gone and the air darted in to mark the ghost of a print in a cold, tingling emptiness.

She looked sad in the firelight, and red all across her cheeks. She didn't look at him but said, 'It must be hard for you though, not knowing how he is. With so many _people out to get him_.'

People really didn't know anything. He scoffed and rubbed the cold patch on his leg. 'My brother loves nothing more that the attention. He's screwed up cities from here to Ferelden.' And he'd be fine. Garrett was always fine. He had to be fine. 'He's the mage's glowing and ever-loving saviour and the Chantry's most wanted renegade. I'm sure he's loving every minute of it.'


	11. Mages 7

As far as Hawke was concerned, the Mage's Ever-loving Saviour was a heavy, blasted title and they could damn well have it back. He wondered how you resigned from the Chantry's most wanted list. Daub it on the walls of a Chantry? Carve 'I quit' into the forehead of some mage and deliver them straight to the Divine?

Angry little huffs behind him were a reminder that there was always a blonde apostate handy if he really needed one. The idea was darkly comforting and he toyed with it, enjoying the thought of bundling all his troubles into a neat, protesting package while Anders stomped at his back. But the images skated quickly through chantries and Anders and foreheads and tranquillity and that was a horrendous chasm and he shouldn't even joke at the precipice for fear of falling down. Hell.

Questing was not the lark liars like Varric made it out to be. It was a lot of trudging in crusty old boots to crusty old dungeons with crusty old demons because some crusty old paper told you it might hold the answer to all your problems. He'd done enough running about when he was younger – the whole family clawing their way from town to town searching for that stupid notion; permanent safety. He'd thought he'd hated the running then. If he could go back he'd tell that ignorant young bastard just to wait; you could always find deeper reserves to hate something more. He'd probably tell him other things about the right salves to use, and avoiding politics, and not getting your head turned by beautiful, crazy brown eyes, but some things you had to learn the hard way.

He'd never felt this blind in Kirkwall. You knew to find fun at the Rose, rumours at the Hanged Man, contraband at the docks, and excitement would find its way to you in Lowton. Often between the ribs. He never had to search – you could find anything you wanted by standing in the eddies of the city long enough. Or by grabbing Isabela and forcing her to give it back.

There was none of this vague scrabbling through troughs and caverns without so much as a clue, or a lead, or even an encouraging note left for a weary adventurer. 'Not this time; your answer is in another castle.'

It was the disappointment he couldn't – wouldn't – stand. Mystery was fine, in fact mystery was downright fun as long as the silhouette of an answer was visible. The tantalising glimpse was vital to keep a man going, to maintain interest as the layers slipped away until you could get your hands on full firm shape of a conclusion. But this wasn't like that – this was a blind fumble without even knowing if your partner was in the same room. The frustration was agonizing, and something else. Something that felt far too close to helplessness.

The sickly sting of seeing mother swirled through his teeth. He clenched his jaw against the taste. Just leave it down there. Leave it with the corpses and monsters and whatever else had been buried beneath the bones and rockfalls. Mother and Bethany and father and demons and dead ends. 'Board it back up,' he'd told the simmering villagers. 'Nothing to be done. Ignore it. Forget it's there.'

Head down. Move forward. He wasn't helpless. There was more to try. Maybe only a sliver, but most doors could only be opened with a sliver and a clever hand.

Leave it behind. Just a big old cross on the map. Hah. Two cross men lost in a big map.

And Anders _was _cross. Hawke hadn't given him time to say it, but the man kept prodding at his jaw like it was tender. It was as if he was disappointed the damage had been left in the Fade. Hawke thought it had a pleasing poetry to it: breaking the mirror, breaking the dream, breaking Anders' jaw. You could build a piece of art from the symbolism, surely? Across the miles he could almost feel Varric wince at his pretensions. Perhaps not poetic then, but it was oh so very pleasing.

And he wouldn't apologise. He hadn't meant to do it, after all, his aim was square for the mirror. Honestly, if he had known, he'd have really savoured it. And if apologies were going to fly about he'd like one himself, thank you very much. As far as he could make out, Justice was a bossy presence when they in strange Fade places. A grumpy, frumpy, aggressive personality problem in a bad coat would have been very helpful to the demon-defeating agenda. Instead, for reasons that remained unknown but were doubtless sinister and terribly po-faced, he'd decided to just hang around until his face could make a nice ornament for Hawke's hand. He wouldn't ask Anders about it, though. He didn't want to know how much of the dream he'd seen. Or heard.

Besides, they weren't talking right now. Although Anders was having trouble grasping that point. He kept winding up to complain, his intake of breath a reedy warning signal for Hawke to find something – anything – else to do but let him get started. He was running out of landmarks on the horizon to announce, though. Truth be told, he was running out of horizon as the once sparse trees gathered closer, like picking a way upwards through a receding hairline. During a particularly unremarkable phase he'd had to resort to a lengthy coughing fit until Anders got the point.

Why couldn't the man understand? There could be no talking. Talking meant a fight, and not one of the old roundabout guilt trips or festering silences that could be left to rot because one of them always had to come back home. This would be the desperate, vocal tearing of two men trying to steer a disintegrating cart in two different directions. With only sticks. While on fire. And Hawke was sure they only had a couple more of those fights in them before it was over for good.

Worst of all, he wasn't sure he could work up the caring to stop it.

No – he couldn't fail. Not this.

Despite the tattered shirt and the terrible beard and the ingrowing toenails he was still the Champion. And he didn't fail.

That was title he still wanted. The Champion was never helpless.

A thin wheedling sound slipped round him like a garotte. Anders must have built up another head of steam, ready enough to try another complaint. Hawke pushed his head down into the shearing wind. It had picked up so much that if he held his ear at the right angle it really did drown out anything else. He forged forward, through the whining wind and thick sod.

He was the Champion. Snatches of complaint snagged at him but he pushed straight through. He was the damn Champion and the next time he put a fist in someone's face he was really going to enjoy it.

Anders struggled to keep pace, and to keep his tongue. Hawke charged ahead of him, bent like a battered nail, head surging forward dragging the rest of his body behind. His shoulders were tight and grey like the looming clouds, looming together threatening thunder. It was distinctly selfish, not to mention self-indulgent. Carrying around a cloud of crossness was as good as hogging it; implying that Anders had to be the calm one, even when he had infinitely more to be irritated about. Anders was the one who'd trusted they were doing something useful, only to get dragged back onto the road with nothing more than the echo of a punch to show for it. Hawke was just the one who'd fallen asleep while Anders was healing and pretty much invited the demon in.

No, Anders was the one with the right to complaint; Anders was the one who'd had his foolish hope exposed, the hope that he could both put his trust in Hawke and pursue his purpose. Fear and doubt had been fraying the edges of his commitment. It was like the death of his old coat. So far he'd managed to patch his belief with Hawke's promises and the invigoration of action but the blow of following on yet another mysterious excursion with no benefit had ripped the hole right open.

The first heavy drops of rain hit Hawke's neck and he grunted angrily, getting there first again. That was enough.

'Hawke, stop.'

He didn't, so Anders yanked him back by his pack. Touching directly was still a risk, too familiar and yet so strange; sunken muscle more distant beneath the clothes, but the warm breath of skin a teasing memory. Also, there was always the chance Hawke would hit him for it.

'Hawke, we need to talk about what happened back there.'

Hawke's response was clipped,as though he didn't trust himself with long words. 'We were both there. I'd say we both got a pretty good view.'

'We did; of us running away, with nothing brought to our cause.' Fleeing with nothing achieved. Nothing contributing to the cause. Nothing changed.

'What? You wanted us to stay there? Start a rebel base with a herd of dopey sheep?'

'There were good people there, too.' They protected a Mage child. They handed supplies to fleeing apostates. A little push and they could have been soldiers in the cause for justice.

'They're what I was talking about.'

'You know what I'm saying. We simply walked away when we could help them take up the fight for themselves.'

'Oh really?' Hawke was incredulous. He looked ready to storm off again, but Anders knew he'd held him too long and sluggish legs would be resistant. It was important to keep the momentum going or fatigue would tackle you like a bear. Hawke threw his pack to the ground and rounded on him. 'They didn't want us there Anders – or have you forgotten? I can practically feel the boot on my arse.'

Maybe they were prickly,built mostly of scowls and posturing, but Hawke hadn't helped, squaring up to their leader and bluntly saying they'd been no help at all. They were too scared to be kind; scared for a Mage. That wasn't their fault. It was the Templars, making entire villages quiver and huddle to protect themselves. They just needed to understand. To be forced to take their caring and push it wider. They were quiet and scared. But that wasn't all they could be. 'They gave us food.' He insisted. 'They supported a mage. They could have been with us. They wanted encouragement.'

'Andraste's tits Anders, you really must lend me this dictionary of yours where 'get your sorry hides out of our town means' is code for 'sign me up and hand me a manifesto'. Oh wait. Perhaps they were low on handkerchiefs.'

Anders hated that. When he was at his most miserable Hawke had taken to making jibes about their time in Kirkwall. He hadn't realised how many things Hawke could find to be spiteful about, but he managed to drag up new things every fight: the manifesto; the panicked search parties Hawke had mounted only to find him spending the night in the clinic; his embarrassment taking Anders around Hightown in case he said the wrong thing to the wrong person. Hawke couldn't know how sickeningly deep the pain of it was. The slivers of their normal life together were precious; he had kept them safe in the fondest corners of his head, only unwrapping them when the pleasure of their shine would outweigh the sadness of their loss. But they belonged to Hawke, too, who could throw them to the floor and grind them with his heel if the fancy took him. And Anders could pick them up and try to polish the shine, try to coax the happiness back in, but they would never be the same.

'Never mind that.' he said. 'That's not even what I was talking about.'

'Oh no? Well, why don't you lecture me for a while on whatever thing I've done wrong this time. It's always a barrel of laughs.'

'We achieved nothing back there.' The bite of lost time was sickening; whole days wasted with nothing done to ease the plight of mages. Hawke shook his head and muttered about not being serious but Anders ignored him. Hearing Hawke ruin memories of their life was crippling, but when he threatened the cause of all mages, even through apathy, it fired him with anger. 'But what is worse, you could have jeopardised everything else we work for. You must be vigilant against the temptations of demons!'

Hawke didn't even look at him. He seemed to be fighting being drawn in, but couldn't resist a small snipe. 'You forgot to include the patronising head shake. It's my favourite part of your little lectures.'

Couldn't he talk seriously about anything? 'Just because you can swagger and charm and bully and things go so easily your way, you think you can't be tempted by demons.' The pinch of shame and sadness reminded him that was one of the things he used to love about him. Hawke could rarely be bargained with, because he had a earth-solid belief that no-one could offer him anything he couldn't take for himself. He remembered his horror when Isabela fell for promises of a boat; no shock at the betrayal, but at the crime of having such banal desires. The confidence was intoxicating to witness, and so, so dangerous. 'Your arrogance could kill you – or worse...'

'Are you done? Because I'm going to arrogantly bully my way into a sandwich.'

'You must be cautious of the dangers. If you let one get hold -'

'Before you get any further.' Hawke whirled to face him and rain sputtered off his outstretched finger. 'Which of the two of us is currently carrying a passenger? Is it me? Let's check.' Hawke pounded at his chest like a beast and shouted. 'Templars! Templars! Sodding huge Templars with their bloody helmets and skirts and big sodding magey-oppressing fists.' He paused, and studied the air as though waiting for something to happen. He shrugged at his own silence and glared. 'Now your turn.'

Ander's teeth squeaked under the pressure of containing himself. Hawke collapsed straight to the sodden grass and rummaged in his pack. He yanked out a sandwich, a small, grateful parcel from the mage boy's mother as they were chased into the wild. The contents weren't impressive but the action was a glorious representation of grassroots support. The symbolism was a little lost as hunks of bread and meat were ripped savagely by Hawke's teeth. Incredibly, it _was_ a little like bullying a sandwich. The sight of something so childish and, it had to be said, disgusting, calmed him a bit.

_He just says it to upset us, he doesn't mean it,_ he told himself as he settled to the ground. He tried to remember that Hawke had been tested twice in a night and was still here, every uniquely trying part of him. And he was obviously shaken by the encounters, even if he wouldn't admit it. Perhaps that was what he needed. They should concentrate on what really mattered.

'You're right. Nothing went wrong, even though it could have.' He pulled apart his own parcel, weighing up its contents. Maker bless hardboiled eggs. Mundane food always made him feel more human; it was hard to feel too grand and righteous when picking shell from a food you could eat in one mouthful. 'But that doesn't change the fact that nothing went right either. How did this whole thing help us?'

'We found out that wasn't the place we needed to be.'

Oh, how fantastically profound. Anders spat through crumbly yolk. 'We're making quite a list. Tevinter, ruins and ditches and blotchy towns. It's been quite the trip and all we've gotten is thinner.'

'And whingier.'

'Don't trivialise this, Hawke. The Circles are crumbling. There is so much at stake and all we're doing is … sightseeing.'

'We're doing what we need to be doing.'

'And how can I believe that until I know what we're doing?'

'By following your fearless leader. Comes highly recommended. I hear some city made him Champion.' It was amazing how Hawke's mood improved when he had the chance to be cocky. As for Anders; well, hardboiled egg could only go so far.

'You're not as cute as you think you are. Tell me.' Tell me, love. Trust me. Or rather, let me trust you.

'I'm exactly as cute as I think I am.' Hawke ran his a casual hand through his thick hair to prove it. His fingers got snagged in a knot. It took him a second to shake them out. 'The answer's still no.'

'I've been patient, Hawke.' And he had. He'd been so, so patient. Trusting that Hawke always did what was right, at least in the end. He'd done the right thing in Kirkwall, he'd landed the final blow on Meredith. Anders had tried to believe that meant Hawke could be relied upon, even as he knew all it really meant was that Hawke could be relied upon to enjoy a fight. 'Lo- Hawke, please, this is too important to turn into a joke.'

'I know that, Anders. What we're doing is very important.'

How would Hawke even know? 'You've never really cared about the mage's plight. How can I know that we're helping the cause?' The fear he didn't want to admit slithered through his gut and he had to ask the question. 'Hawke, are we even doing anything at all?'

'Just because I don't beat my chest wailing about the Circles- ' Something stopped Hawke mid-insult and he decided to be kind. 'I know what this means to you, but what we're doing is vital, Anders. Now you're just going to have to trust me.'

He leaned over and patted Anders' arm. It was the friendliest action he'd managed in some time, but his eyes shifted to the floor. Anders wanted to trust him. He wanted those fierce eyes to pin him straight with promise and force him to believe. He wanted to with an intensity that made him sick with shame at his own weakness. He knew Hawke could do the impossible; he wouldn't have followed this far unless he knew the man could make free mages from scared boys, or dead qunari from live ones, and a free, better world from the unjust ashes of the Circle. Hawke could do great things, but he just didn't know if Hawke had the fire for the right things. The hard things.

He grabbed Hawke's arm as he stood, letting him pull them face-to-face. 'How can I trust you? How can you ask that when you don't share anything?'

The damp calm exploded. 'Do you even hear the words coming out of your mouth?' Hawke was shouting. This time it wasn't bitterness, or sly cruelty but some kind of floodgate had been breached and pure, natural anger was spewing forth. Accusations battered Anders' face, full of hot anger and spittle. 'You tell me nothing, Anders! Everything's a secret with you – the Wardens, your precious Underground, your private missions... Sela Petre.' Hawke spat. 'I was an idiot, but you were a liar. Have you _ever_ been truly honest with me?'

'I was trying to protect you.'

'Congratulations. You could not have done a worse job. You put me in it, Anders.' Hawke was animated, twitching in and out of himself. He seemed unable to decide whether to reach out and touch, or stay clasped and solid. He settled for more spitting. 'I am right in it. And I am going to fix it.' He fixed shoulders forward, brows jutting, full of determined promise, like a bird about to leap. It was his Champion stare, before he stormed a keep or smeared blood over his nose in some showy parade of intimidation.

It still impressed Anders a little. But it didn't scare him. 'This is so like you. You can't bear not to be the centre of things. You don't care about the cause. You just want to be the big hero.'

Hawke looked stumped for a second. He got halfway to a word before jerking himself back. He must have reconsidered because what came next stang more than magebane. 'I just want to be the hero? I could have had that in a heartbeat. In a heartbeat, Anders! One knife in your neck and they would have made me Viscount over your cooling boots. Instead I let you live. I let you live so that you could make it better. But you don't get to do it in your furious blaze of glory.'

That hurt. How could Hawke suggest he would risk his purpose for something as trivial as glory? If Hawke didn't understand what that meant... 'Maybe it would have been better to just have killed me.'

'It would have made my life a lot easier.'

A pale part of him was shouting to be heard, screaming that he was focusing on the wrong thing; that he should be upset about something else and not the suggestion he would jeopardise the cause. He felt the uncomfortable chasm widening in him between the conversation and his own understanding of it. He fell back on the one thing he knew he could wield when these things escalated beyond his pace.

'I'm sorry you regret that decision.' He said, quietly. He knew he shouldn't use guilt to escape, but it was the most reliable way to get Hawke to back down. Or back off.

Except today Hawke's face didn't crumple into supportive words and half-apologies. Wasting arms clamped shut instead of forming a hug and a sly voice sharpened to steel. 'Are you? It's not too late for me to change my mind.'

Once it would have been a blessing. Anders remembered thinking his death was inevitable, and the calmness of knowing that it was right, and fitting, and over. But then Hawke had pulled him up, and the purpose had grown again, until over time it filled him with life again. So much so that now thinking of that eagerness for death was like reading a diary entry in his own hand; he could acknowledge the feeling was his, but he could not taste it any more. His mouth was dry as a tomb. 'That ship has sailed.' he managed.

'I'm an excellent swimmer. I can catch it up'

The joke flew wide of the mark, but the tone skewered straight through his spine. Hawke was being venomous and that had Anders scared. Scared this had moved beyond playing, like the difference between boys who taunt cats with water and those who set them on fire. And scared that this cat had claws that could rip a man apart. 'Stop it.'

'No. This clearly isn't working. You don't want to keep doing this. Perhaps I should just end the whole stupid enterprise here.'

It wasn't funny any more. It never had been. The fear of death singed his bones, and it was the fear of failure, of leaving things incomplete. He would not let any man stop him. Let any man dare try before his work was done. 'Do you really think you could do it?'

'That depends. It's easier when you're blue.'

'Be careful, Hawke.' His voice rumbled with a deep timbre, and Anders hadn't known until he said it whether that would be a plea or a threat. Hawke shouldn't challenge him. The power to defend himself, to crush this man who threaten him, it was within him and through him. It burned in ready blue veins across his hands. He tried to put them down, to bring them harmless to his sides, but he couldn't feel his body any more - just the power lancing in it

'Don't hide it – I want to see you.'

'Don't push me!

'Why? Are you afraid to spill some precious mage blood?'

'You're barely a mage. You're more like one of them.' The words came from somewhere outside himself. They were the world and the world curled with smoke.

The response was quiet, but rang clear as a shout. 'You've said that before.'

A mage girl, trembling in the dirt. How close he'd come to murder. Hawke was looking up at him, his face wide and tilted like hers, but his eyes screamed victory, not fear. They were on the ground – when had that happened? Anders felt the chill of damp material in his fists and realised he was gripping Hawke by his collar. He must have thrown him down. He snatched himself away from Hawke, horror stinging his skin. He didn't help him up; he didn't trust himself to touch him.

Hawke pulled himself upright but stayed sitting, no tremor or whimper to betray that he almost … Anders snapped that thought off right there.

He stood several paces away, staring up into the falling rain. He thought of cats, and of food, and of the cold rain on his face until the anger and fear washed into his boots. When he looked back, Hawke was still sitting, still angry, his face fixed in a determined scowl. It was foolish. They were supposed to be fighting for the same thing, but they spent most of the time fighting each other.

He sighed. 'Why do we do this?'

'Because I'm out of my mind and you're an abomination.' The sickly nastiness in his voice had receded, but Hawke clearly still wanted to poke a little at the wounds. ''Hah. It's ironic really, that it turns out the hardest thing for you to give up is control.'

And it was as Anders had feared. Hawke really didn't understand. 'I have given up so much. And there is so much more to go. That's why I can't jeopardise the fight. The sacrifices I've made; I must honour them.

'Don't preach to me about sacrifices. You made them for me, too, remember? Well now it's my turn to make some decisions. And it's your turn to shut up and swallow the promises of some vague shambling mage.' Hawke yanked at the damp grass, pulling it out in clumps. He kept his head down, sniping at the ground. Anders wanted to be calm and reasonable, but Hawke made everything so difficult. This time it wasn't the righteous sting of Justice but the needling irritation of someone faced with a spoiled, vindictive brat.

'You are such a child. You want to risk the future of the world to get back at me.' He had to talk to the back of Hawke's head, and he carried on, exasperated. 'It's fascinating to see how you can plumb the depths of selfishness.' Hawke was still ignoring him. Anders dug his foot in the grass and kicked a clump of mud at his back. He didn't know what else to do but it made him feel better. He couldn't do it forever, though, so then he just stood, letting the rain tickle his ears and knock the mud back to the grass.

After a while of angry silence he started to feel nothing more than stupid. Hawke had wrapped his arms around his knees and was shivering and Anders couldn't help the surge of pity. In so many ways Hawke was still just a child and maybe that meant he wasn't fit to lead the mage's revolution, but it didn't mean he wasn't trying. He'd trekked all the way to the Imperium and then all the way back for his little quest. And now he was half-starved and trembling and sat in the rain, when he could still have been in Kirkwall. Or any one of a hundred more comfortable places. The memory of the demon's offer curled into his mind and Anders thought of what Hawke had lost and what he could no longer have. The guilt filled him. Why was it so hard to remember this side of it now? To think what Hawke was thinking? When he was selfish and young it used to be so easy to put himself in someone else's clothes, in so many different ways. But now it was hard to make people out, their lives and hopes were murky, as if viewed through a dirty glass.

Hawke often reminded him of his old self. He'd tried to warn him that a life together, a life with a greater purpose wouldn't be easy, or enviable, but Hawke believed that things could be coaxed or elbowed his way without any of the hard choices. It was his greatest flaw, but it wasn't a cruel one, Anders felt a swelling fondness towards the both of them; his old self and his very current Hawke. Two boys with too much hope for the world.

He settled to the ground next to the tight curl of Hawke, close enough to feel his shuddering. He spoke gently. 'I was honest to you, sometimes.' Sometimes so honest it hurt. To balance out the pain of the times he wasn't. 'I warned you I'd break your heart.'

Hawke whipped and pounced. Anders back popped as he was pounded to the floor. 'Break my heart?' Hawke shouted in his face, eyes shining with madness. 'Do you really think -' his voice was breaking and Anders didn't know if he was laughing or crying. 'Something so small? You made me a murderer, Anders!'

Hawke gripped his shirt and slammed him hard against the ground. And again. The mud sucked at his head with each blow. 'The Chantry... All those people...' Hawke's knuckles glowed like a beacon in the dark. He was holding on for dear life. 'You made me help!' Hawke readied to slam him again, but his arms were shaking too much. 'I trusted you. And you made me help.'

He was obviously desperate, his voice cracking. It was too much. Shock and pity and sheer, desperate love moved Anders' limbs for him. He grabbed the back of Hawke's neck and dragged him quickly to his chest. He kissed the dark head. Hawke punched his side; the only bit he could reach with a swing. It hurt but Anders didn't let go. He said the only thing he could think of. 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.' Hawke breathing hitched and he hit him again, but it was softer this time and he didn't try to get away. Anders dug his chin into drenched hair. 'I'm sorry.' It was a kiss and a plea and he wasn't sure what he really meant by it but he murmured it like the Chant until Hawke's breathing slowed and the weight of him sank onto his chest.

How long had he been holding that back? Anders marvelled. He'd spent so long testing the seams between his cocksure, excitable Hawke and the new spiteful coating that he'd forgotten that underneath the charm and bluster was this frightened young man who cradled his dying family and couldn't bear to be powerless against it. Hawke's head was hot beneath his lips and Anders missed him so much it felt like his lungs were blistering.

He missed what they had been, and he regretted what they could never be. And he missed this moment already, with Hawke's breath warm on his chest and their hearts pounding together, because it couldn't last and he knew it and he held tight and concentrated so it could be alive in his memory, bright in pain and heat and love.

'No.' Hawke pulled his head away. Anders held on a little; he couldn't help it.

'No.' Hawke said again, but without aggression. He pushed himself back on his haunches, before flopping dejectedly back into the mud. 'You're right Anders. This isn't working.' He squinted through the rain. Anders couldn't tell if his eyes were red, but in the draining light they were deep and hooded. 'I thought you could be something you're not. I thought you were somebody else.'

They sat in silence for a moment, the rain hissing sadly around them.

'I'm sorry.' Anders said again. And he really was. 'You can't like me very much.'

'I hate you more than anyone else in the world. And that makes you special.' Hawke ground at his eyes with the heel of his hands. 'I think it's time we faced it; this isn't working. We shouldn't be too far from the Tantervale Highroad. When we find it it can take you to any city you want to paint red.'

'There's no reason not to come with me. I mean, I want you to come with me.'

'I think I'll pass. Watching you blow up one Chantry is enough for a lifetime.'

'What will you do?'

Hawke looked bemused, like it hadn't occurred that anything else was an option. 'I don't know. Something fascinating, I'm sure.'

'Even if I'm not with you, you mustn't abandon the cause. You have to carry on, for all mages.'

'No.' Hawke snapped. 'That's it. I am here because I decided to be and I will dance naked with the Queen of Antiva on a glistening bed of cherries if that's what I decide to do. Your cause doesn't own me, Anders. _You_ don't own me.'

That was now very clear, it was as if someone had etched a line around Hawke, marking him as a separate person, whole and inscrutible. Anders couldn't pinpoint when he'd he started thinking of him as an attachment, as familiar and useful as an arm, and – Marker help him – a fist to be wielded. But wasn't that what love was: familiarity, unity, and duty? Embers of other ideas flickered valiantly, trying to catch his memory and he stared at Hawke.

The man was rubbing his neck, large hands leaving streaks of mud in the curling damp hair. His chin worked under his scraggly beard while he thought. His eyes were the same colour as the sky, and as he stared into the heavy clouds it looked to Anders as though there was a holy connection in their mirrored design. Hawke was never very reverential about the Maker, treating him with the same idle curiosity with which he approached any ancient magic, but he might have been attempting a prayer.

He seemed to come to a conclusion. 'Let's make the most of it while there's still a little light.' He stood up and stretched. 'Give you a last chance to appreciate the view.'

As he moved away he gave an obscene little wiggle for Anders' benefit. And, so help him, Anders enjoyed it. Despite the driving rain, Hawke walked unbowed now, almost with a swagger where the slick ground would allow.

Anders followed, feeling new purpose in his own steps. He could take his own lead, march through each Circle one by one and ignite them with a flame of justice so bright the world would shrink from the light. He would burn the injustice from the world and leave it fresh and new. He didn't yet know where to start, but already the anticipation of change tore around his head, weaving and biting and powering his legs onward. His body swelled with an energy that made it easier to ignore the weight in his heart, tugging like an anchor.

As the remaining light dribbled over the horizon, the rain picked up, driven into their faces by the horizontal wind. Hawke shook himself like a dog. His hair stood in clumpy tufts until the rain battered it flat again. Anders watched his progress as water pounded his head and he slipped and skidded on the treacherous ground. He kept going, blowing droplets from his beard as he picked his steps. And he had kept going; whatever happened from now on, Hawke had resolutely battered his way through worse. And he'd done it for them. It must have meant something.

He slipped, and Hawke lunged to catch him by the elbow. They shared a genuine smile as Anders found his feet again. The weather had a terrible sense of humour; to get so bitter and bad tempered when they were at their most peaceful. They would have to give in soon and make camp, but Anders didn't want to break this lovely peace for an evening of huddled misery.

A flicker of light stabbed through the trees. Instinctively they both shrank away. Buildings or people were to be avoided, and they skirted from tree to tree, hugging the shadows and keeping the flicker towards the edge of vision. Their path still drew them closer, but as they did the light slowly separated into many smaller, static points.

'An inn, then. Just an inn.' Said Hawke, wistfully.

Anders thought of their packs and cloaks, the oiled skins (another gift from Hawke) giving some protection from the wet, but the wind was sneaky and insidious and he knew they would be damp and chilled throughout the night, no matter how well they bedded down. The shifting of weight in his bag prodded him with an idea, and a very real desire. Surely they were owed this much? How could that be true of a final act of generosity before giving up the one thing he ever really called 'his'. The expected wave of guilt was just a trickle. He expected accusations of selfishness, but instead there was just resigned understanding and the glimpse of a female face, plain but inspiring affection. That memory, belonging to neither of them, stolen from a dead man, carried an insistence on protection. Of course, Justice understood the obligation of love. It was just all the squishy, desperate bits in between that met with disapproval.

'Hawke; let's stay at the inn?' he had to shout over the wind, but at least he wasn't shouting over himself.

Hawke looked at him as though he'd suggested getting down to one Jethann's specials. 'Remind me how many times you were sent back to the Circle?'

He let the question float right past him. There was no point in raising those ghosts. Not when he was feeling so amenable to himself. 'No Templars will still be moving in this weather. It's just one night. If it's to be our last night together, why not?

'You mean you want to say goodbye in style?'

'What I mean is, it can't be as dangerous if the trail is splitting.' Hawke's undoubtedly depraved definition of 'in style' didn't sound so bad, but it was important that that kind of thing was Hawke's idea, not his. Anders' own suggestion was just a sensible notion, fulfilling his duties to a loyal friend, not some jaunt to satisfy base desires. No one could complain about that.

Hawke eyed the warm lights in the distance hungrily. 'It's a tempting proposition, but we've not got the coin for it. Unless you fancy going in there and selling some other tempting propositions?'

Anders rummaged in his bag, his sopping arm slicking across his meagre possessions until he found what he was looking for.

'I wasn't seriously suggesting –' Hawke began. 'Actually, maybe I was. Are there oils in there? I hope it's oils.'

'No, Hawke. There's been an improvement in our circumstances.' He held out the necklace, trying not to feel its weight on his hand. It was a tawdry thing but it had enough glint for Hawke to make it out in the dim light. 'I found it back in the cellar; I'd forgotten with everything else. There's more; not good quality, but good enough for us.'

Hawke whistled. 'Anders the jewel thief.' How did he manage to make those things sound so romantic? It was pure criminality, taking something without earning it. But Hawke's smile edged a familiar thrill into the disgust. 'Perhaps I'm rubbing off on you after all.' He smiled again, and Anders felt warmer already.


	12. Mages 8

The inn was an oppressive jumble, a boxy two storeys when viewed from the outside became a snarl of half-open doorways and slouching beams, and stairways twisting in to themselves. The air was thick with voices and smells and the lingering damp of sodden people piling in front of the fire. Anders pushed his way first into a broom cupboard, then an indignant man's room before finally kicking his way past a sack of what looked like potato skins but could have easily been drowsy slugs into a low-roofed corridor where a sour hag was serving a wispy eared customer. She was counting coins with bad grace and surrendering them to his papery hand, which trembled with the effort of being extended for so long.

They would clearly be there for a while, until she ran out of coins or the old man ran out of strength. Anders turned to the stools lining one mottled wall, found the cleanest corner of the sturdiest one and perched, anchoring his head against the wall and soaking in the sounds beyond. The plaster throbbed with shouts and laughter and the clank of tankards. He used to love this kind of place – heaving with dirty, giddy life. Admittedly, that life was often found crawling through walls and beds and crotches, but at least that made the world busy and free.

These days it all felt so far away. As though the whole world was filtered to him through a damp pub wall. Hawke wouldn't have any such trouble – Hawke would tumble back into the noise and chaos as easily as a pebble finding an avalanche. Anders was glad he could shepherd him back into the world, even if he had to bear watching him skip and slide away.

'Chairs cost for the night, just like beds messere.' He jolted from his stool and into pooling disdain of the bookkeeper. He slouched over to her hatch.

'Then I'll take a bed.' He said. 'How much?'

She hummed and hawed, grey mouth working, trying to figure out how much he was good for. He pulled a necklace from his bag and her eyes went wide but her lips sewed tight as a purse. He wouldn't have any of it; he could tell from the weight of the links, warm in his hand, that it was worth far more than a bed for the night.

'This will cover it, I'm sure.'

She hissed like an angry kettle, but passed him a chit. 'Put your mark here and I'll see what we've got for you.'

She elbowed away into a nest of papers and forgotten cloaks. He could hear her bustling and tutting as he tried to pick a name he'd remember. Not his real name, obviously. And not his birth name, either. It was funny, in a way. Of all the secrets Hawke hated, he'd never once asked about his name. And now he never would.

Sadness pinched at him, small and manageable, but it would swell into a bruise if he let it. So he forced himself to think, to work his way around the lump in his brain. He sifted through names he'd liked at the Circle – the ones he'd stolen from others and tried out in his head, back when he still imagined 'Anders' was a temporary stop. A place to hide.

He'd been Niall already, and while he'd loved Zechariah he knew he'd never spell it the same way twice. He would be Jowan today. Was that the ginger dribble who could never get the hang of primal spells? Or maybe one of the younger mousy ones from the lower dorm; one of the boring robe-shapes that hid behind rules and cowered in shadows around Templars and troublemakers alike. Blending into the rigid stone of the tower as though it would save you.

It wouldn't. The blocks had to be blown apart.

He wrenched himself from the visions and poured all his fury into the quill. The nib split as he worked, but his hand was steadier by the time he returned it to his pot.

The bookkeeper balked at the mess as she slapped his key on the book. Ink wept from the pages in angry spatters. The name was barely legible it was etched so deep – the opening J a long gash down the virgin page.

He snatched the key before she could change her mind.

'Your room is up the stairs. Second on the left as you go up.' she said, darkly, as though each word caused her pain.

'I'll find it.'

'And you'll be wanting a bath, meserre - ' she squinted at his scribble and hazarded a guess '- Janice.'

A bath. He regarded his hand, where he'd absorbed copious amounts of ink from the desk, and left crumbs of dirt in return. She was probably right. It was an extravagance, but didn't want to draw attention to himself. He could feel the smell of him bustling around the room already, ready to aggressively make new friends. The crone wasn't disguising the crinkle in her nose, and he realised she hadn't phrased it as a question.

'Yes.' He said, through a tight mouth so as not to shake more dust from his head than necessary.

'The bath house is down the corridor to the right. I expect you'll go there first.'

She scanned him, her ruined ledger, a haloed mark of dirt on the wall that he realised must have been from resting his head and then she placed a claw around the necklace. He could feel the tug of her weighing it through his fingers. He wouldn't let it slip away from him that easily. Money didn't matter, but principle did.

He pulled it away and spoke firmly. 'And the rest?'

'Begging your pardon, messere?'

'For this payment, I'm owed dinner and breakfast. And three drinks at the least.'

'Dinner is included in our hospitality, naturally. You'll hear the bell.' He suspected that she would come and clatter it around his head. 'As for the rest, it'll have to be squared with the master.'

That was hardly a promise, but he knew he had made himself memorable enough to this woman already. He held the necklace to the light to inspect it. Her eyes followed, like the beads of an abacus, clicking to and fro, accounting for each slice of gold. She was still securing a bargain, whatever his terms. They both knew that. 'I'm sure it won't be a problem, for an _honest_ man.' He said, and held it out to her. Her whip reflexes nearly took his fingers off. He pointed into a dim corridor. 'The bath house is this way?'

'Aye.' The necklace was gone already – secured in some dry, brittle part of her person. 'Be careful on the flags. It would be a terrible shame if you slipped and did yourself a mischief.'

Her scowl chased him down the hallway. He could only hope his smell would stick around and menace her.

He was making far too much of an impression.

The elf who worked the bath house slipped about like steam. Anders was relieved of his burdens, shrugged out of his clothes and eased into the water before he really knew what was happening. The water was so hot it felt almost solid, probing fingers coaxing his muscles into relaxation. The elf appeared with soap and, when Anders rejected any offers of help, pulled a screen most of the way around the tub and dissolved back into the pillowed air. His swift and silent servility made Anders uncomfortable. He didn't like anyone else fawning over him, especially not somewhere like here. It was crowded in the bathtub as it was.

Alone in the bath he came face-to-other-places with his own body. Did he really have this many toes? His feet were a vehicle, solid boots pounding to the next goal, not these ridiculous pink nubs with – honestly – some disgusting and angry nails. He started washing from the bottom up.

The water was already the colour of weak tea. It would take at least three more baths before he was fully clean, but he hadn't the time or coin for that. He would do what he could, even if it meant simply moving the dirt around for a more even spread.

He dug the grooves between his toes with a slice of soap. It tickled. It was strange, as though he'd forgotten he was restricted to this shape, constrained to six feet and half an inch and two hands and ten toes. And bony knees that shoved in his face as he worked the soap shard around his heel.

He'd grown up with these legs, but they were like strangers. Freckles winked at him – old friends who knew he'd forgotten them, but soft with forgiveness. There was a crowded group of ten or so, around the biggest knobble on his left knee, scattered in the shape of wonky, grinning face. It had been his own, comforting secret as a child, and stayed that way as an adult (knees didn't really have any sex appeal worth sharing around, especially when decorated with poor faces) until Hawke had found it on one of his explorations and delightedly named it.

Anders traced the freckly smile with the edge of the soap. He was hit with a loss he couldn't explain. 'Hello Neal.' he whispered.

'Ahoy there.' Hawke's voice jangled across the flags..

The soap splashed into the water. Anders clenched his knees to himself and squinted out beyond his tub. He was shielded by his screen, and the sliver into the world/room was just empty stone and steam.

'Hello messere. How can I help you?' Elven feet slapped across the wet floor.

'I'm in the market for a wash.' Hawke announced. Of course he was. Anders' heart quieted a little. Hawke wasn't looking for anything other than hot water. Nonetheless, Anders ducked into the rim of his tub as steam puffed and scurried from bodies moving behind the screen. 'I know tradition dictates I should've come through the front door, but I figured it's probably fairer to make payment to the person who has to look at people's nether bits all day.'

'Probably figured it would be cheaper, too.'

'Maybe.' Admitted Hawke. 'No contribution to rent, or soap tax, or whatever else goes into the book upstairs. But it was mostly the nether bits.'

'Hmm.' There was silence as the elf considered. 'I don't normally do this, but from the looks of you it's something of a necessity. I'll take you as a charity case.'

There was the muffled clank of damp coins and a hum of consideration. 'In that case, what would you offer if I said I hadn't had sex in months?'

'At present I would offer a candid lack of surprise. Messere.'

Hawke barked with laughter. 'Fair enough. Better show me the bath as quick as you dare.'

Their voices warped and shadows leapt across the ceiling as they crossed the steamy room.

'I like you, Serah Bath Elf.'

'Marran.' the elf supplied.

'I like you, Marran. I wish that meant I could tip you but I seem to have fallen on hard times.'

'Not hard enough, by the sounds of it.' Hawke's laugh was scattered by the splashof a man all but leaping into water. 'But if it helps, it means you couldn't have afforded me anyway.'

Anders started washing himself with silent vigour and batted the elf away when he sidled in offering scents and an altogether too self-satisfied smile.

Hawke was making a great crashing in the bath with huge, soapy roars that sounded like the tide coming in. At least the elf would have some busy cleaning up to do. Anders knew from painful experience that water would be all over the floor. It was just like everything else – Hawke threw himself in bodily, and something always spilled over the sides.

Usually that would be cause for frustration, but instead he felt the warm blush of affection ripple through his chest. Hearing Hawke's noisy contentment felt good, and good in the simple, unambiguous way he associated directly with Justice. Why? He thought the question and felt the answer in the same instant. It floated in on the smell of Orlesian roses and freshly washed socks that had nothing to do with the bath house. _Aura._ The name was blonde hair in the sunlight, and sad, accusing eyes.

He squirmed, convinced it wasn't right to think of another man's wife in the bath, no matter how very-definitely-dead-this-time he might be. But the memory didn't come from him, or from a dead man. It came from Justice and was as far from desire as Justice himself. And as clear as sunlight Anders understood why they were allowed to do this. Hawke might be weak, and a liability, and mostly just an unpredictable idiot, but he had made an effort out of love and loyalty to them. And at the end he had earned a reward.

It was what love meant, to Justice. Duty and obligation, and heavy, grey things like mutual responsibility. Anders choked on filthy bath water. The part of him that was Justice thought they were _married_. And Justice thought love was a trip to the bath house, not all the wonderful, squeaky clean yet filthy opportunities that present themselves in one. He peered at his poor, ignored cock through the filmy water, half expecting to see cobwebs, and was sorely tempted to reintroduce himself right then and there.

But he didn't. Of course he didn't.

He scrubbed his arms instead, peeling away layers of grime and memory to the constant freckles beneath. This was who he was, and who he had to be. A tight knot of purpose in a surprisingly soft and hairy body.

Hairs that tingled as Hawke whistled in damp, tuneless circles. Like pathetic hounds straining to hear their master. The melody came in snatches, loitering in Hawke's favourite bits and, whenever he hit a place he couldn't remember, looping round or veering into a new song.

They'd fulfilled their obligation at least; Hawke was finally happy. And Anders felt terrible. He had known that Hawke was angry, obviously, and that Hawke felt defiant and obstructive. It had never even occurred that he was sad. The world lived between useful and obstructive, fury and satisfaction, in tones of guilt and justice and impatience. Sadness hadn't featured, not really. But now, in the cooling, grimy water the colours were bleeding back into the world. He wanted to stay in them, to float through the shades, taste the world in every light and fix every emotion back to his soul. They weren't useful, so he shouldn't want them. But he did.

A jolt in the tune followed by a splashy thud told him Hawke had catapulted out of the bath. He would be shaking himself dry; all tight glistening muscles, dark hair streaming, eyes bright.

Human life was colour, and lust was a blistering red. Anders wanted red. With a dry mouth and hammering heart he longed for red. He could leap out of the tub now – skid across the bath floor and bury himself into that achingly gentle curve of a back. Black and yellow hair entwined and exploding into bright bursts of crimson and white.

Instead, he weighted himself like a cat in a sack as big feet smacked the floor and Hawke's tumbling whistle bled into grunts of grooming and dressing. Anders let the cold water snake around his limbs, pricking out chilly pimples and pulling whiter the tight, shiny scars where swords, or darkspawn, or youthful idiocy had left their marks. Life had been such chaos before he'd been blessed with purpose and the only constant had been this body. How could it feel so distant and painfully present all at once. It was like having whole-body pins and needles.

Was his body betraying him? Or had he betrayed it?

He lay silent and chill until he was sure Hawke had left, then hauled himself free from the water. The elf was there faster than humanly possible and watched dispassionately as Anders rubbed himself dry.

He was then parked unceremoniously in front of a steamy glass to marvel at the terrifying figure he'd become. It was becoming clear that he was the traitor to his once presentable body, allowing his hair to run wild and letting the wind blast his face to a hideous pink. Worst of all, apparently inviting some kind of mucky creature to nest around his chin. He forced a comb to his roots but it struggled to do more than chew at the gritty knots. He would just have to take it off and rip the grimy drapes from the very top. The dull and scratched scissors didn't look up to the task – they were still choking on the thick black tufts that were evidence of Hawke's attempt. The knife looked fairly sharp, though. He scooped his hair into a single handful and sliced as close to the root as he dared. It took a few tries, but before long most of his hair lay on the floor in solid coils, dark with water and grease.

The man in the mirror still looked wild, but now more like a scarecrow losing its stuffing than a dangerous savage. He hadn't had his hair this short in years. He couldn't have been more than eleven, or maybe twelve. He had a feeling it had looked even worse then. The memory was hazy, like all the things that only belonged to half of him. It was more comfortable these days to pretend that his world began with the meeting of Anders and Justice and extended as far as their mission. It didn't fracture so much to pretend that his past was another little boy far away. One they could fight for, rather than run from.

Yet here, with a comb at his fingers and his own scared eyes staring back at him that distance shrank to the thickness of glass. If his younger self could stare back out at him, what would he see? Could he ever have thought he'd be standing here now with all the things he's done behind him and a harder path stretched out ahead of him. Would he recognise himself?

The elf sidled into view and coughed. 'I can help you with that.' he said.

Not even the Maker could help this, Anders thought, before noticing the foamy bowl in Marran's hands. The elf thought he was staring in horror at his own beard. Not without reason, so Anders allowed him to bring a seat and get to work.

The elf's razor sheared yet more of the years away, until Anders was forced to shut his eyes against the blasted mirror. He settled into blackness and listened to the gentle hum of Marran as he worked. Between the rasps of his blade Anders tried to make out the tune. It was familiar, but never did quite what he expected, like returning to a dream. Even as his face was swaddled in hot cloths he still couldn't place it and then the elf was tipping him out of his chair and it was too late anyway.

'Much better.' Marran admired his handiwork before frowning at the tufty mess on the top of his head. Anders refused the help before it could be offered and the elf glided away, looking put out.

Anders gathered his clothes, smellier by far than he was and dressed, taking pains to avoid any reflective surfaces. His face was tingling with post-shave alertness and something else that wasn't quite embarrassment. His hair still littered the floor, just another thing to leave behind. He felt oddly sorry for it.

He smothered squeaky pink toes with the driest parts of his socks and shoved them back into his boots. He still had a long journey ahead. There was no room for sentimentality. Everything should be left behind that he couldn't afford to carry with him.

Nevertheless, as he slouched his way back in to the inn it was with a snatch of hair stuffed in his pocket. Sentimental it might be, but it would see him through dinner. It would see him through the dark lonely night and through the grind and trials to come. Tomorrow he would carve a trail to the nearest Circle. He would bring light to darkness and a purging flame to injustice. It was a very heavy burden. He could see there was little point adding the weight of regret to it.

But some things carried more weight than they gave. A sickbed, a crutch or a bandage taut around a broken arm. As Anders bent his newly shorn head back into his task, he thumbed rough tufts of jet black hair and couldn't decide if he felt heavier or lighter.


End file.
